7 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 


.  OF  CALIF-  LIBRARY.  LOS  AW.KI.W 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 


BY 

JOHN  HASTINGS  TURNER 

AUTHOR  OF  "SIMPLE  SOULS" 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1920 


Copyright,  19*0,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS  , 


Published  February.  1920 
Reprinted  February,  1920 


TO  MY  WIFE 


2133254 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  ROUND  MAN        .......  i 

II.  BUTTERFLIES n 

III.  No  MANNERS;  No  MORALS    ....  21 

IV.  ADVOCATUS  DIABOLI 32 

V.  SORCERY i  45 

VI.  ON  ODDNESS 65 

VII.  IRIS  SITS  ON  A  THRONE 75 

VIII.  SOME  LETTERS  AND  A  THUNDERBOLT     .  92 

IX.  KNITTING  AND  EMBROIDERY    ....  101 

X.  BROWN  AND  SMITH in 

XI.  "NIGHT  OPERATIONS"        127 

XII.  CHARITY  MATINEE  IDOLS 139 

XIII.  THE  TIME  WHICH  WAS  OUT  OF  JOINT    .  152 

XIV.  "SHEER  IMPERTINENCE" 161 

XV.  "THE  LITTLE  TIN  GOD  AND  A  TELEGRAM"  172 

XVI.  "THE  GRAND  TOUR" 185 

XVII.  "THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS"  ....  197 

XVIII.  "A  TEXT  FOR  THE  VICAR"     ....  216 

XIX.  "THE  BEGINNINGS" 232 

XX.  "THE  BIRTH" 241 

XXI.  "THE  THREE  'LV"     ......  264 

XXII.  "MORE  BEGINNINGS" 277 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

CHAPTER  I 

A  ROUND  MAN" 

THERE  is  a  kind  of  man  who  appears  to  be  fashioned 
in  circles.  His  body  is  a  collection  of  curves  topped 
by  a  round  and  shining  head.  His  soul  is  as  round 
and  polished  as  his  body,  with  no  mad  and  jagged 
corners  to  scarify  society's  epidermis.  Even  his  life 
is  a  circle,  for,  as  a  rule,  he  will  die,  as  his  temperate 
habits  deserve,  at  a  ripe  old  age,  on  the  very  thresh- 
hold  of  infancy  once  more. 

So  long  as  there  happens  nothing  to  disturb  him, 
such  a  man  will  run  his  course,  without  much  detri- 
ment to  his  fellows,  and  quit  the  earth  finally,  if  un- 
honoured  and  unsung,  at  least  unmoved.  And  it  is 
possible  that  to  live  or  to  die  in  a  state  of  indifference 
is  not  so  great  an  evil  as  it  sounds. 

Just  such  a  round  and  shiny  man  was  Henry 
Cumbers,  who  rented  "Applegarth"  at  ninety  pounds 
per  annum.  It  is  quite  superfluous  to  describe  him. 
The  trains  that  run  to  Greater  London  about  six 
o'clock  contain  his  double  many  times  over.  He 
was  fifty,  and  the  toecaps  of  his  boots  turned  up  a 

i 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

little  from  the  ground.  He  believed  in  God  and 
regular  hours.  Art,  he  thought,  could  be  overdone ; 
the  precise  point  where  it  broke  bounds  he  con- 
sidered himself  fully  qualified  to  dictate,  and  had 
indeed  done  so  in  the  case  of  the  Joynson  girls  (four 
houses  up  the  road) ,  who  had  abandoned  corsets 
and  taken  to  Ancient  Greece.  When  Henry's  son, 
Tristram,  had  expostulated  and  grown  warm  in  the 
defence  of  personality,  his  father  had  closed  the  con- 
versation by  pointing  out  that,  in  the  first  place,  he 
considered  himself  master  in  his  own  house,  and  in 
the  second  that  there  were  people  with  whom  he 
would  allow  his  family  to  be  seen,  whereas  there 
were  others  with  whom  he  would  not.  The  Joynson 
girls  might  be  considered  amongst  the  latter.  Finis. 
That  was  the  sort  of  man  Henry  Cumbers  was. 
These  round  men  round  off  everything  and  leave  life 
arid. 

Mrs.  Cumbers  was  a  complaisant  echo  of  her  hus- 
band. When  she  dies,  "yes,  dear,"  will  be  found 
written  on  her  heart.  At  the  same  time,  if  anyone 
is  curious  enough  to  examine  her  brain,  which  has 
been  dormant  now  for  twenty-five  years,  they  may 
find  "no,  dear,"  written  thereon  instead.  But  Mary 
Cumbers  had  found  it  easier  to  be  guided  by  her 
heart,  and  as  it  was  a  very  sound  organ,  with  an 
almost  illimitable  capacity  for  sympathy,  she  was 
doubtless  right. 

Tristram  was  their  only  child.  He  was  artistic. 
That  is  to  say,  that  he  felt  he  ought  to  love  beauty, 

2 


A  ROUND  MAN 

but  he  did  not  know  what  was  beautiful.  Like  every 
boy  who  is  nineteen  and  not  fond  of  exercise,  his 
mind  was  untidy.  His  brain  was  lumbered  up  with 
other  people's  mental  excretions.  At  the  moment 
he  was  doing  nothing  at  home,  prior  to  taking  up 
a  profession.  His  father,  whose  business  in  life  was 
to  manage  an  accountancy  department  in  a  big  en- 
gineering firm,  wished  his  son  to  follow  him,  but 
Tristram  leaned  towards  something  of  greater  dis- 
tinction; neither  father  nor  son  realised  that  one's 
business  in  life  is  of  far  less  importance  than  one's 
business  with  life.  The  latter  should  always  be  de- 
cided before  the  former. 

Sunday  nights  at  Applegarth  were  mostly  the 
same.  A  cold  supper,  shared  as  often  as  not  by  the 
vicar  of  the  church  where  Henry  Cumbers  was  a 
warden,  followed  by  an  hour's  desultory  talk,  gen- 
erally on  parish  matters. 

To-night  they  sat  in  the  garden.  Henry  sucked 
at  a  large  pipe;  Mary,  half-asleep,  turned  over  the 
pages  of  a  best-seller.  Tristram  stared  moodily  at 
the  roses,  rapidly  becoming  colourless  as  the  sun 
went  off  duty,  and  the  Rev.  John  Heslop  regarded 
them  all  whimsically  from  under  his  shaggy  grey 
eyebrows.  He  was  a  big  man  with  a  big  mind, 
rapidly  becoming  squeezed  dry  by  the  little  members 
of  his  congregation.  As  a  prince  of  the  Church, 
three  hundred  years  ago,  the  Reverend  John  might 
have  swayed  kingdoms;  as  the  parish  priest  of  a 

3 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

Garden  City  he  had  long  since  abandoned  everything 
except  the  effort  to  retain  the  original  sanity  of  his 
creed.  Moreover,  he  had  never  been  in  the  least 
anxious  to  sway  kingdoms. 

Yet  he  was  still  a  stimulating  conversationalist. 
He  would  let  sentences  and  half-sentences  drop  from 
his  lips  in  a  curious,  jerky  way,  which,  for  those  that 
had  ears  to  hear,  invariably  opened  up  new  angles 
of  thought.  Now  he  was  bending  his  attention  to 
Tristram,  who  was  denying  Christ  as  heartily  as 
most  young  Christians  of  our  time. 

"The  Church,"  dogmatised  the  young  man,  "is 
dull." 

"Deadly,"  murmured  the  clergyman;  "but  then, 
so  are  the  Houses  of  Parliament;  it  isn't  a  sane  rea- 
son for  destroying  theml" 

Henry  Cumbers  grunted  with  a  kind  of  dyspeptic 
indignation. 

"Boy's  half-baked,"  he  snapped.  "He  wants  oc- 
cupation; then  he  wouldn't  think  about  God." 

It  was  the  Cumbers  solution  of  the  world-old 
quarrel  between  rationalists  and  mystics. 

"Better  to  beat  out  one's  music,"  said  the  clergy- 
man, and  rammed  some  tobacco  into  his  pipe  with  a 
yellow  finger.  The  boy  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"I  want  colour,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"Go  to  San  Francisco,"  answered  the  Reverend 
John.  Tristram  leant  forward  eagerly. 

"Have  you  been  there?"  he  asked.  The  vicar 
nodded.  He  liked  this  boy  for  all  his  absurd  affecta- 

4 


A  ROUND  MAN 

tions.  He  was  so  genuinely  eager  to  inherit  the 
earth. 

"Don't  put  ideas  into  the  boy's  head,  Heslop," 
said  Henry. 

"Pooh,  Cumbers!"  returned  the  other.  "What 
else  are  heads  for?" 

"You'll  disturb  his  mother,"  said  the  father,  and 
they  all  turned  towards  Mary. 

She  was  fast  asleep.  Her  husband  leant  across 
and  spoke  in  her  ear. 

"Mary,  don't  go  to  sleep;  you'll  catch  cold;  it's 
bad  for  the  circulation." 

Mary  looked  up  with  a  start. 

"Have  I  been  to  sleep,  dear?"  she  said.  "How 
very  rude  of  me  1"  She  shivered  a,  little.  "I  think 
I'll  go  indoors.  Don't  move,  anyone,  please." 

The  Reverend  John  rose  clumsily  from  his  chair. 
He  always  got  up  and  sat  down  as  though  his  body 
was  a  collection  of  spare  parts.  Mr.  Cumbers  dis- 
appeared in  the  direction  of  the  French  windows, 
panting.  He  was  a  heavy  eater  and  a  slow  mover. 
The  Vicar  was  left  a'one  with  the  young  iconoclast. 
Somehow  they  found  themselves  walking  up  and 
down  the  little  strip  of  lawn. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  clergyman,  apropos  of  noth- 
ing, "God  is  very  mysterious.  Some  men  find  it  in 
a  woman — generally  a  case  of  mistaken  identity." 

"But  that's  not  religion,"  urged  Tristram. 

"Everything  is — or  nothing  is.  It  depends  on 

your  point  of  view "  He  broke  off  and  watched 

5 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

the  sun  making  a  last  adieu  behind  the  church 
steeple.  "I  wonder  if  it  matters  much,"  he  said 
suddenly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  boy. 

"I  don't  insist  on  the  Church,"  said  the  Reverend 
John.  "I  advise  it.  It  keeps  things  in  sight  when 
men  are  out  of  touch  with — with  all  that."  He 
waved  a  long  arm  over  the  whole  circle  of  the  sky. 
"People  take  things  so  much  for  granted  now.  Cities 
do  that — escalators  and  cars  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing — it's  a  pity;  we  talk  of  little  lives."  (His 
mind  pictured  the  figure  of  Henry  Cumbers.)  "Well, 
that's  ridiculous.  How  do  we  know  what's  little?" 
He  broke  off.  "If  I  had  a  mitre,"  he  added,  in  one 
of  his  curious  jerks,  "I  shouldn't  know  why." 

He  became  aware  that  he  had  been  talking  over 
the  boy's  head.  He  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Publicly,"  he  said,  "I  consider  it  a  pity  you  do 
not  go  to  church ;  privately,  I  advise  you  not  to  worry 
your  head  about  it.  Don't  give  me  away." 

The  rather  irritating  notes  of  a  gramophone  cut 
the  conversation  off  like  a  snapped  wire.  Mr.  Cum- 
bers was  coming  out  of  the  house.  His  voice  was 
querulous  with  annoyance. 

"And  on  a  Sunday  evening,  too!"  he  was  saying. 
"Really,  it  is  too  trying.  I  wish  that  box-hedge 
would  grow  up.  But  it  won't  stop  sound.  Don't 
you  think  it's  in  gross  bad  taste,  Heslop?" 

"What  are  they  playing?"  asked  the  clergyman. 

6 


A  ROUND  MAN 

"It's  a  song  from  the  Empire  revue,"  said  Tris- 
tram. "  'Heaven  must  be  full  of  girls.'  ' 

"Oh,  is  it?"  rejoined  his  father,  with  a  touch  of 
asperity.  "I  don't  go  to  revues." 

"Of  course  you  don't."  said  the  Reverend  John. 
And,  having  the  artist's  touch,  left  it  at  that. 

"Gramophones,"  said  Henry,  "are  vulgar.  If 
you  want  music,  have  music.  That's  what  I  say." 

"Machinery — progress — but  it  may  be  retro- 
grade," murmured  the  clergyman.  "Who  knows? 
It's  all  very  curious.  The  modern  schoolboy  is  more 
learned  than — oh,  eighty  per  cent,  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago;  on  his  deathbed  he's  no  wiser  than 
Adam.  I've  given  the  Sacrament  to  very  clever  men. 
They  want  it.  Why?  It  isn't  fear;  they  just  want 
it.  I  must  go  home." 

He  shook  his  big  head  vigorously  as  if  dismissing 
a  train  of  thought. 

"I  talk  too  much,"  he  said,  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"Good  night,  Cumbers!  Vestry  meeting  on  Tues- 
day." 

Outside  the  gate  he  stopped  and  turned. 

"The  boy  wants  scope,  Cumbers,"  he  said.  "He 
thinks  he's  imprisoned  behind  high  walls,  with 
wonderful  variety-show  going  on  outside;  he  ought 
to  live  with  artists  and  criminals,  and  those  sort  of 
people;  then  he'd  find  out  that  everybody  is  the 
same — and  come  back.  Vestry  meeting  at  two- 
thirty." 

7 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

Henry  Cumbers  walked  back  along  the  path  just 
as  Tristram  appeared  from  the  side  of  the  house. 
His  eye  caught  a  "To  Let"  board  on  the  other  side 
of  the  diminutive  hedge. 

"Funny  Dangerfield's  not  gone  yet,"  he  said. 
"I'd  have  thought  nice  houses  like  these  would  have 
been  snapped  up  at  once." 

"Would  you?"  said  Tristram.  His  father  took 
his  arm. 

"You  know,  my  boy,"  he  began,  in  his  most  seri- 
ous vein,  -"you  mustn't  take  all  that  Heslop  says  au 
grand,— well,  without  a  grain  of  salt.  Mind  you,  I 
like  the  man;  though  there  have  been  complaints 
about  him  in  the  parish.  I  know  what  people  mean; 
he's  too — too  all  over  the  place.  Everything  he  says 
overlaps  everything  else.  What  I  call  a  disturbing 
man.  People  don't  like  being  disturbed.  He  ought 
to  be  a  bishop;  then  he  couldn't  do  any  harm."  He 
broke  off  and  became  a  little  truculent.  "And  look 
here,  Tristram,"  he  said,  "I  don't  like  this  wild  sort 
of  conversation  on  a  Sunday  night;  you're  a  socialist 
and  an  atheist  all  the  week;  surely  to  goodness  you 
can  be  a  Tory  and  a  Christian  on  Sundays  1" 

"Why  Sundays?"  asked  Tristram.  His  father 
became  vague. 

"Well,  black  for  funerals  and  feast-days — that 
was  how  I  was  brought  up,"  he  said.  "Goodness 
knows  I'm  not  asking  anything  out  of  the  ordinary. 
One  must  stick  to  the  decencies  of  life;  otherwise 

8 


A  ROUND  MAN 

where  are  one's  standards?"  It  was  a  favourite 
word  of  his.  He  warmed  to  it.  "I  remember  my 
father  saying  to  me  when  I  was  a  lad — and  they  are 
words  you  might  well  take  to  heart." 

Tristram  stopped  suddenly. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "there  is  something  very 
fascinating  about  a  'To  Let'  board." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about?"  snapped 
his  father  angrily. 

"Makes  one  feel  like  Robert  Louis  Stevenson." 
The  boy  spoke  as  if  to  himself.  "As  if  anything 
might  happen." 

"I  believe  you  try  to  be  irritating,"  said  Mr. 
Cumbers.  "And  you'd  better  get  your  hair  cut  to- 
morrow; I've  never  seen  such  a  mess!" 

He  walked  quickly  into  the  house.  He  knew  it 
annoyed  Tristram  to  be  urged  to  get  his  hair  cut;  the 
remark  had  rounded  off  many  an  argument. 

As  for  the  boy,  with  the  calm  superiority  of  nine- 
teen years,  he  wrote  his  father  down  a  fool  and  re- 
tired to  his  bedroom.  His  father's  room  was  next 
to  his  own,  and  he  heard  Henry's  voice — a  sort  of 
grumbling  buzz — through  the  wall.  Every  now  and 
then  he  could  distinguish  a  sentence. 

"Must  have  steadiness,"  he  heard.  .  .  .  "No 
standard  .  .  .  must  have  rules  in  life  .  .  .  regular 
hours.  ...  I  hate  excrescences." 

He  paused,  and  a  kind  of  bleat  came  through  the 
partition.  Tristram  could  not  hear  the  words,  but 

9 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

he  knew  them.    It  was  Mary  Cumbers  saying:  "Yes, 
dear," 

"Oh,  damn  I"  said  the  boy;  which  was  very  wrong 
of  him. 


10 


CHAPTER  II 

BUTTERFLIES 

LUNCH  at  the  Cavendish  grill-room  is  so  expensive 
that  everybody  there  always  knows  everybody  else. 
With  democracy  coming  into  fashion  so  fast,  it  is 
probable  that  in  a  few  years  its  manager  will  be  the 
only  autocrat  left  in  the  world.  Such  is  the  power 
of  his  smile,  which  creases  up  his  whole  face  like  a 
peach-stone,  that  one  feels  one  would  rather  be  re- 
fused a  table  by  him  than  be  persona  grata  at  every 
other  hotel  in  London.  For  this  reason,  and  be- 
cause there  is  positively  no  such  lobster  salad  to  be 
obtained  elsewhere,  the  grill-room  is  always  full. 

At  a  table  against  the  wall,  but  well  within  view 
of  the  whole  room,  sat  a  couple  who  were  attracting 
a  great  deal  of  attention.  This  was  partly  because 
they  were  strangers,  partly  because  of  the  peculiarly 
arresting  beauty  of  the  woman.  She  was  dark,  with 
large  eyes  which  reflected  not  only  every  emotion, 
but  almost  every  intonation  she  put  into  her  words. 
Her  nationality  might  have  been  anything — as,  in 
point  of  fact,  it  was.  She  could  not  have  been  more 
than  twenty-five  years  old,  yet  she  had  the  assurance 
of  a  woman  ten  years  older,  and  gave  the  impres- 

ii 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

sion  that  her  experience  of  life  probably  matched  her 
manner. 

She  talked  incessantly,  hardly  stopping  even  for 
breath,  yet  she  was  never  entirely  unaware  of  the 
interest  which  she  was  exciting  round  about  her. 
She  was  one  of  those  disconcerting  people  who  are 
born  to  have  an  audience  or  to  be  an  audience.  Of 
course  it  was  an  accident  that  Iris  Iranovna  was 
born  at  all.  These  things  are  generally  accidents. 
Somebody  meets  someone  else  at  a  supper-party — 
somebody  pulls  out  a  cork  too  many — somebody  sees 
the  world  through  champagne-coloured  spectacles  for 
an  hour  or  two,  and  that  is  all.  Twenty-five  sum- 
mers later  Iris  Iranovna  is  attracting  a  great  deal  of 
attention  in  the  Cavendish  Grill;  in  real  life  this  is 
neither  the  problem  nor  the  tragedy  that  the  wise 
people  who  write  books  would  have  us  believe.  It 
just  happens,  and  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  neither 
you  nor  I,  who  consider  A.  charming  and  B.  bril- 
liant and  C.  lovely,  ever  hear  anything  about  the  ac- 
cident at  all. 

The  man  who  was  lunching  with  Iris  was  remark- 
able only  for  his  air  of  strength.  He  was  not  hand- 
some, but  owned  a  pair  of  animated  blue  eyes  that 
were  rather  attractive.  He  was  big  and  spoke  in  a 
musical  if  rather  slow  voice;  he  always  seemed  to 
choose  his  words  with  the  greatest  precision  even 
when  delivering  himself  of  quite  a  trivial  remark. 
Now  he  regarded  his  companion  with  a  slight  smile 

12 


BUTTERFLIES 

as  she  looked  at  herself  in  a  little  mirror  which  was 
attached  to  a  green-and-gold  bag. 

"I  do  love  it,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"What  do  you  love?"  he  asked. 

"My  face,"  she  returned  simply.     He  laughed. 

"Beauty,"  he  said,  "is  skin-deep." 

"And  an  oyster,"  she  retorted,  "is  swallowed  in  a 
second.  Yet  people  love  oysters,  and  I  love  my  face. 
Why  do  you  throw  yesterday's  proverbs  at  me?" 

"Yesterday's  bones,"  he  said,  "make  to-morrow's 
soup." 

"I  dare  say,"  she  answered,  putting  the  mirror 
back  into  its  bag,  "but  it  is  very  bad  manners  to  eat 
out  of  the  stock-pot  1" 

He  looked  at  her  curiously;  even  a  little  sadly. 

"Iris,"  he  said,  "you  talk  an  infinite  deal  of  noth- 
ing." 

"Order  me  creme  de  menthe"  she  answered;  "it 
matches  my  jade." 

Over  the  coffee  he  leant  across  to  her  and  spoke 
seriously. 

"I  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "when  you  are  going 
to  marry  me." 

"Well,  Andrea,"  she  replied,  "I  don't  know.  You 
can't  possibly  take  me  back  to  Russia  yet.  It 
wouldn't  do.  Besides,  you  don't  really  know  me  well 
enough." 

He  laughed. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  said,  "I  think  you  flatter 
yourself  when  you  imagine  your  affair  with  Maurice 

13 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

made  so  much  stir  in  Petersburg.  After  all,  you  did 
not  kill  him." 

"I  very  nearly  did,"  she  answered.  "Poor 
Maurice !  Why  is  it  that  first  husbands  are  always 
unsatisfactory?  I  knew  I  should  stick  a  knife  into 
him  sooner  or  later.  I  hope,  Andrea,  for  your  sake, 
that  you  will  never  have  to  live  with  someone  who 
can  refuse  you  nothing." 

"Maurice  was  certainly  a  negative  personality," 
returned  her  companion;  "but,  after  all,  what  has 
actually  happened?  You  lost  your  temper  and  very 
nearly  killed  your  husband — there  was  a  scandal  and 
a  trial  and "  He  stopped  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"And,"  she  went  on,  "if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
pulling  of  strings  I'd  be  in  prison." 

"As  it  is,"  he  said,  "you  are  comfortably  divorced; 
yet  you  think  it  necessary  to  leave  Petersburg  and 
come  and  live  down,  in  a  London  suburb,  a  scandal 
that  no  longer  exists.  It  isn't  like  you." 

"Nothing  that  I  do  is  like  me,"  she  said;  "it's  like 
a  bit  of  me — that's  alll" 

He  sighed. 

"You're  a  charming  bundle  of  horrible  possibili- 
ties," he  said.  "Why  you  haven't  gone  to  the  devil 
I  can't  imagine." 

"Nor  I,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  it  is  because  it  is  so 
easy;  the  devil  is  an  attractive  man,  and  he  welcomes 
anyone  who  flings  their  arms  round  his  neck — but 
it  is  much  more  difficult  and  much  more  amusing  to 

14 


BUTTERFLIES 

stroke  his  chin,  and  say :  'No,  you  shan't  kiss  me.' ' 
He  puffed  thoughtfully  at  his  cigarette. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  "whether  there  is  anyone  of 
your  sex  who  likes  to  be  called  a  nice  woman." 

"Probably  not,"  answered  Iris.  "You  see,  it's  no 
longer  considered  good  form  to  have  any  convic- 
tions." 

"I  am  not  sure,"  said  Andrea,  "that  a  time  will  not 
come  when  even  modern  society  will  have  to  have 
convictions." 

She  laughed. 

"Don't  be  ponderous,  Andrea,"  she  said.  "Why, 
you  are  one  of  the  worst  offenders.  Have  you  not 
a  pedigree  you  could  paper  a  salon  with,  and  are  you 
not  proposing  to  marry  a  girl  who  owes  her  parent- 
age to  an  'amour  de  hazard'?" 

"I  should  be  pleased  to  marry  you,"  he  said,  "for 
your  conversation  alone." 

"Thank  you,  but  that's  not  what  a  woman  likes  a 
man  to  love  in  her." 

"What  does  she  like  him  to  love?" 

"If  you  don't  know,  you'd  better  not  get  mar- 
ried." 

He  took  her  seriously,  as  he  always  did,  and  his 
eyes  became  suddenly  troubled. 

"Don't  tease  me,  Iris,"  he  said.  "You  are  going 
to  marry  me,  aren't  you?" 

"I  expect  so." 

"Then  why,  in  heaven's  name,  do  you  want  to  go 
and  become  a  suburban  nun  in  England?" 

15 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"Well  Andrea,"  she  answered,  "I  want  to  sort 
myself  a  little.  I  want  to  live  for  a  bit  right  away 
from  my — my  entourage,  and  try  to  find  out  why 
Maurice  and  I  were  a  failure."  • 

He  looked  up,  surprised. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Iris,  that  you  are  actually 
taking  yourself  seriously?" 

"Not  really,"  she  answered,  "but  everyone  has  a 
natural  curiosity  as  to  why  things  happen  to  them." 

He  signalled  to  a  passing  waiter  for  the  bill. 

"So  I,"  he  said,  "have  to  return  to  Russia  and — 
wait?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  expect,"  she  answered  wickedly,  "that  you  will 
console  yourself." 

He  paid  the  bill  and  they  rose.  In  the  street  he 
turned  to  her  almost  fiercely. 

"Iris,"  he  said,  "you  cannot  live  your  life  through, 
simply  by  gratifying  one  whim  after  another.  This 
suburbia  idea  is  absurd.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know 
you?  You  see  yourself  an  interesting  recluse — the 
foreign  lady  with  a  past.  Bahl — it's  unworthy  of 
you." 

She  smiled  at  him,  not  in  the  least  annoyed. 

"It  is  not  often,"  she  said,  "that  one  does  any- 
thing worthy  of  oneself.  Go  back  through  your 
own  life  and  see." 

She  got  into  a  cab  and  was  gone.  Andrea  Bakaroff 
remained  on  the  pavement  gazing  after  the  disap- 
pearing cab.  It  was  always  the  same.  As  a  fencer 

16 


BUTTERFLIES 

with  words  he  was  outmatched  by  her  at  every  point. 
Whether  she  was  grave  or  gay  (and  for  the  life  of 
him,  as  a  rule,  he  hardly  knew  which  she  was),  she 
would  always  leave  him  with  that  unfortunate  feeling 
that  not  only  had  he  had  the  worst  of  the  argument, 
but  also  that  there  had  been,  in  reality,  nothing 
worth  talking  about.  She  played  with  life,  some- 
times as  a  baby  with  a  woolly  ball,  sometimes  as  a 
spider  with  a  fly,  but  always  it  was  play.  When  her 
path  led  her  into  sordid  places  (and  she  had  been 
in  many  such)  she  seemed  to  have  the  faculty  for 
skimming  lightly  over  the  surface  unsoiled,  as  a 
butterfly  flutters  across  a  manure-heap.  For  all  that, 
there  had  been  mothers  who  had  looked  on  with  ill-  . 
concealed  anxiety  at  an  intimacy  between  Iris  and 
their  daughters.  She  knew  too  much,  and  had  too 
great  a  faculty  for  putting  "ideas  into  people's 
heads."  Her  passions  and  her  pleasures  were 
mediaeval,  and  her  imagination  was  wont  to  become 
almost  Rabelaisian  in  the  right  atmosphere.  She 
could  be  as  subtle  as  any  society  wit,  yet,  if  the  truth 
were  told,  she  would  rather  tell  a  story  in  the  man- 
ner of  Boccaccio,  and  consider  an  mrriere  pensee 
waste  of  time.  Clever  and  beautiful,  passionate  and 
determined,  she  might  have  been  a  Borgia  had  not 
•her  sense  of  humour  been  too  great  to  allow  her  to 
become  a  serious  criminal.  Her  first  husband  came 
upon  her  under  rather  peculiar  circumstances.  He 
was  wandering  round  Vienna,  more  or  less  alone, 
and  like  so  many  men  of  his  type  had  drifted  into 

17 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

the  temporary  acquaintance  of  several  theatrical 
folk  who  were  not  unwilling  to  spend  his  money. 
Strolling  into  the  theatre  one  day  to  see  one  of  these, 
a  stage-manager  of  a  particularly  repulsive  type,  he 
noticed  on  the  stage  a  small  crowd  of  chorus-girls 
looking  rather  scared,  while  in  their  midst  his  friend 
was  raving  at  a  somewhat  pathetic  figure  seated  on 
a  packing-case,  her  head  buried  in  her  hands,  and  her 
shoulders  shaking  convulsively.  Not  liking  to  inter- 
fere, he  turned  up-stage  and  saw  in  a  moment  the 
cause  of  his  friend's  indignation.  On  the  back  wall 
of  the  theatre,  which  was  white-washed,  there  stood 
out  a  caricature  which,  unmistakably  the  stage-man- 
ager, was  at  the  same  time  almost  horrifying  in  the 
contortion  of  the  features  and  the  malignity  of  the 
expression.  It  was  a  modern  reincarnation  of  one 
of  those  devils  one  sees  wielding  a  prong  in  early 
religious  paintings.  At  the  same  time  there  was  a 
quality  so  essentially  ludicrous  in  it  (as  indeed  there 
is  in  the  devils  themselves)  that  Maurice  Iranovitch 
could  not  restrain  a  chuckle  of  laughter.  The  little 
group  turned  and  looked  at  him,  anxious  to  see  what 
fresh  outburst  from  the  stage-manager  would  greet 
the  appreciation  of  another  male.  Maurice  caught 
sight  of  the  bent  figure,  and  was  sorry  for  her.  He 
came  down  the  stage  slowly. 

"After  all,  Kernin,"  he  said,  "it  is  only  a  joke." 
"She  goes,"  answered  the  other,  between  great 
spasms  of  breathing.     "She  goes;  she  leaves  the 
theatre  this  instant." 

18 


BUTTERFLIES 

Maurice  shrugged  his  shoulders.  After  all,  it  was 
nothing  to  do  with  him.  The  stage-manager  turned 
away,  and  he  approached  the  girl. 

"Come,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der, "it's  no  use  crying  about  it;  you'd  better  go." 

The  girl's  shoulders  shook  again,  and  she  looked 
up. 

"I  can't  go,"  she  said.  "I'm  too  weak  to  move." 
And  then  he  saw  that  she  was  helpless  with  laughter. 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  commonplace.  He  was 
very  kind  to  her  and  saw  a  great  deal  of  her,  and  in 
the  end  she  married  him  in  an  introspective  mood, 
when  she  was  calling  herself  names  for  taking  so 
much  and  giving  so  little.  He  never  understood  her 
in  the  least.  He  did  not  even  pretend  to,  and  would 
often  begin  a  story  at  the  club  of  some  of  her  doings 
with  the  words:  "Mysterious  woman,  my  wife." 
He  never  crossed  her  in  anything;  he  never  even 
argued  with  her,  until  at  last  she  described  her  mar- 
ried life  as  a  continual  sticking  of  pins  into  a  pin- 
cushion. As  there  is  nothing  so  trying  for  a  woman 
with  a  violent  temper  as  to  have  nothing  to  lose  it 
over,  the  menage  became  more  and  more  impossible, 
until  at  last,  in  a  fit  of  ungovernable  rage  over  some- 
thing quite  immaterial,  she  stuck  a  knife  into  him 
at  a  dinner  party  and  caused  a  public  scandal. 

"Even  then,"  she  complained,  "he  behaved  like  a 
gentleman."  Of  course  the  whole  thing  was  very 
wrong,  but,  after  all,  it  only  goes  to  show  that  one 
cannot  grow  orchids  in  a  window-box.  She  was  tried 

19 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

and  convicted.  However,  strings  were  pulled  (it 
was  Maurice  himself  who  pulled  them),  and  Iris 
left  Russia  a  free  woman,  with  stains  all  over  her 
character.  Being  rather  exhausted  by  the  whole 
affair,  she  had  determined  to  remain  in  England 
long  enough  to  make  up  her  mind  whether  she  dared 
expose  Andrea  (who  certainly  understood  her  a 
great  deal  better  than  Maurice,  and  of  whom  she 
was  seriously  fond)  to  the  difficulties  and  dangers 
of  becoming  her  husband. 

It  was  this  cosmopolitan  firework  who  had  that 
day  signed  a  lease  for  "Dangerfield,"  which  was 
only  separated  by  an  anaemic  box-hedge  from 
"Applegarth." 


20 


CHAPTER  III 

NO   MANNERS;   NO   MORALS 

TRISTRAM  CUMBERS  was  engaged  to  be  married.  It 
was  one  of  those  engagements  which  have  the  full 
approval  and  even  the  connivance  of  the  parents,  a 
state  of  affairs  which  is  always,  in  a  way,  a  pity. 
Muriel  Hudson  wanted  to  marry  Tristram  because 
her  maternal  instinct  demanded  something  to  pro- 
tect. Tristram  wanted  to  marry  Muriel  because 
he  had  never  thought  about  the  matter  seriously  at 
all.  Anyway,  the  actual  marriage  seemed  a  long 
way  off,  and  if  considered  by  him  at  all  was  re- 
garded in  the  light  of  an  inevitable  termination  to  a 
rather  pleasant  friendship.  In  no  sense  of  the  word 
could  his  heart  be  said  to  be  in  chains.  Muriel  was 
a  fair,  pretty  girl,  with  a  mouth  that  was  a  little 
too  firm  to  be  quite  pleasant,  and  a  wealth  of 'what 
is  called  "common"  sense.  As  for  her  clothes,  she 
knew  what  suited  her,  but  rather  spoiled  the  effect 
from  a  certain  air  she  seemed  to  cultivate  of  having 
put  on  her  clothes  rather  from  a  sense  of  duty  than 
pleasure.  Tristram  never  noticed  her  clothes  at  all; 
still  worse,  she  never  noticed  his  lack  of  attention. 
These  two,  as  it  happened,  were  standing  in  the 
21 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

front  garden  of  Applegarth,  when  the  advance- 
guard  of  the  cosmopolitan  invasion  rolled  up  before 
the  house  next  door.  A  large  furniture-van,  trailing 
in  its  wake  pieces  of  sacking  and  long  wisps  of  straw, 
drew  up  in  front  of  Dangerfield,  and,  as  is  the  habit 
of  furniture-vans,  slewed  ponderously  round  until 
the  road  was  no  longer  of  any  importance.  Tristram 
watched  these  proceedings  with  a  brooding  eye. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  "who  has  taken  the  house 
next  door;  it  might  be  a  princess — incognito,  of 
course,  with  some  dreadful  story  behind  her;  she 
would  have  to  come  disguised — disguised  as " 

"As  a  furniture-van,"  broke  in  Muriel.  "Can 
you  think  of  a  better  disguise  than  that?" 

Tristram  was  silent,  with  a  secret  sense  of  de- 
pression. His  own  idol  was  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son, and  he  tried  to  cultivate  the  attitude  of  mind 
which  he  imagined  to  have  been  the  master's.  This 
romanticism  was  quite  foreign  to  Muriel's  nature. 
She  considered  "An  Inland  Voyage"  pretty  and  the 
misfortunes  of  the  Arethusa  mildly  amusing;  but 
"Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde"  was  merely  horrible  in 
her  eyes,  while  "Treasure  Island"  was  a  story  for 
schoolboys. 

"It  will  be,"  she  said,  "a  very  ordinary  family; 
soon  they  will  begin  unloading  the  spare-room  furni- 
ture, and  you  will  see.  It  will  be  in  white  paint." 

"It  is  horrible,"  mused  Tristram,  "to  see  furni- 
ture outside  a  house.  The  back  of  a  chest  of  draw- 
ers always  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  was  in  a  desert." 

22 


NO  MANNERS;  NO  MORALS 

"When  they  get  some  things  out  we  shall  know 
all  about  them,"  said  the  girl. 

"How?"  asked  Tristram. 

"Well,  the  appearance  of  a  rocking-horse,  for 
instance,  would  give  a  great  deal  away,"  she  an- 
swered. But  at  that  moment  the  furniture  van  be- 
gan to  disgorge,  and  Tristram  became  far  too  much 
interested  in  its  contents  to  listen  to  Muriel's  descrip- 
tion of  the  ordinary  family.  There  was  not  much, 
it  is  true,  that  he  could  see,  but  every  now  and  then 
a  torn  wrapping  afforded  a  glimpse  of  some  piece 
or  other,  a  fleeting  vision  of  carpet  or  curtain.  Quite 
enough  for  Tristram  to  see  in  them  already  a  whole 
room,  furnished  and  hung  romantically  and  splendid- 
ly, as  befits  a  princess.  However,  though  day- 
dreaming was  probably  the  greatest  pleasure  of  his 
life,  he  realised  that  he  was  being  a  little  childish, 
and  turned  suddenly  back  to  Muriel. 

"Beastly  business,  moving,"  he  said.  "I  should 
hate  it." 

"But  it  is  great  fun,"  answered  the  girl,  "arrang- 
ing all  the  things." 

"Only  if  they  are  new  things,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Cumbers  stepped  out  on  to  the  lawn.  He 
was  in  a  cheerful  mood. 

"Billing  and  cooing?"  he  shouted  breezily.  "I 
suppose  tea  doesn't  matter  when  one's  engaged." 
He  liked  to  keep  up  this  kind  of  banter  with  his 
son,  although  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  neither 
Tristram  nor  Muriel  had  ever  billed  or  cooed  since 

23 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

the  day  they  had  become  engaged  eighteen  months 
ago.  Possibly  he  thought  it  the  correct  parental 
attitude  and  expected  of  him.  Moreover,  it  seemed, 
in  some  curious  way,  to  stimulate  a  feeling  of  pa- 
ternity towards  Tristram  to  which  his  son's  nature 
often  made  it  rather  difficult  for  him  to  cling. 

"We  were  looking  at  the  furniture-van,"  said 
Muriel. 

"Never  known  a  furniture  removal  yet,"  said 
Mr.  Cumbers,  "that  didn't  break  something.  And 
it's  always  your  best  things  too.  It's  never  the 
kitchen  china  that  goes  in  this  world.  Why,  I  re- 
member when  we  were  moving  in  here  I  had  a 
marble  clock  smashed — split  right  across  the  top  I 
Solid  marble!  Must  have  thrown  it  under  the 
wheels,  I  should  think.  But  I  got  compensation.  I 
don't  know  how  many  letters  I  didn't  write ;  but  they 
had  to  pay — one  pound  seventeen  and  six.  Never 
let  people  think  they  can  ride  rough-shod  over  you, 
Tristram.  It  doesn't  go.  What  about  some  tea, 
young  people?" 

They  followed  him  obediently  into  the  house.  Tea 
progressed,  and  Mr.  Cumbers  started  to  spread  him- 
self. He  began  to  map  out  his  son's  life.  He 
talked  of  marriage  and  its  responsibilities,  of  parent- 
hood and  of  the  bringing-up  of  children.  He  him- 
self was  one  of  those  men  who,  cloistered  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  by  Fate,  have  grown  up  in  complete 
ignorance  of  the  flesh  and  the  devil,  and  whose  world 
is  limited,  luckily  enough,  to  a  parish;  yet  he  spoke 

24 


NO  MANNERS;  NO  MORALS 

as  Socrates  must  have  addressed  the  Athenians,  and 
retired  to  bed  with  the  idea  that  he  possessed  the 
tongues  of  men  and  of  angels. 

Mrs.  Cumbers  had  quite  a  good  night. 

It  was  two  days  later  when  Iris  arrived  on  the 
scene.  Mr.  Cumbers  was  working  in  the  garden. 
It  had  been  a  hot  and  sultry  day,  quite  intolerable  in 
the  City,  and  even  now,  at  half-past  five,  physical 
exercises  were  apt  to  make  a  man  look  unattractive. 
But  this  working  in  the  garden  was  part  of  Henry's 
belief  in  regular  hours,  and  he  would  as  soon  have 
forgone  his  martyrdom  as  given  up  his  dinner.  So 
there  he  was,  aching  in  every  limb  and  dragging 
up  protesting  weeds  from  their  strongholds.  For 
Iris  it  was  the  first  evening  in  her  new  home,  and 
although  Andrea  was  coming  down  later,  so  that  an 
hour  or  two's  entertainment  from  teasing  him  was 
assured,  at  the  moment  she  was  a  little  dull.  She 
caught  sight  of  Mr.  Cumbers,  bent  double  and  grunt- 
ing with  exertion,  and  regarded  him  for  a  few 
moments  over  the  little  box-hedge.  She  imagined 
he  was  the  gardener,  and  was  sorry  for  him. 

"You  oughtn't,"  she  said  suddenly,  "to  have  to 
work  like  that  at  your  age  I" 

Mr.  Cumbers  straightened  his  back  excruciatingly. 

Iris  was  looking  very  beautiful  in  a  tea  gown  of 
chiffon  velvet  carried  out  in  a  number  of  wonder- 
fully-blended cool  colours  which  managed,  like 
practically  everything  she  put  on,  to  suggest  endless 
intrigue. 

25 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

Mr.  Cumbers  was  not  looking  beautiful  at  all. 
Moreover,  he  realised  suddenly  that  she  was  taking 
him  for  the  gardener.  He  stared  at  her  for  a 
moment,  too  astonished  to  take  any  action.  It  was 
preposterous  .  .  .  unheard  of  ...  besides,  he 
never  could  tolerate  bare  chests  in  the  daytime  .  .  . 
Henry  suddenly  became  very  angry.  He  threw  down 
his  hoe  and  walked  into  the  house. 

"Dear  me !"  thought  Iris,  quite  undisturbed.  "He 
can't  be  the  gardener  after  all."  She  was  returning 
to  the  drawing-room  when  Tristram  came  round  the 
corner  of  the  house,  and  she  saw  at  once  that  it 
was  his  father  to  whom  she  had  spoken.  She  smiled 
at  him,  and  he  took  off  his  hat. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "that  I  have  been  very 
rude  to  your  father.  I  thought  he  was  the  gar- 
dener." 

Tristram  said  nothing.  He  was  not  a  very  ex- 
perienced conversationalist  and  he  could  not  do  two 
things  wholeheartedly  at  once.  At  the  moment  he 
was  completely  occupied  with  looking  at  her. 

"Of  course,"  Iris  went  on,  "he  needn't  really  Have 
been  angry.  Most  gardeners  are  charming.  I  sup- 
pose it  comes  from  living  with  flowers." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Tristram. 

"But  I'm  afraid  he  was  .  .  .  very  angry;  I  shall 
have  to  come  in  and  make  it  up." 

"Of  course,"  said  Tristram,  with  a  growing  sense 
of  disaster.  He  began  to  realise  exactly  how  a  rabbit 
feels  when  it  sees  a  snake.  Had  she  told  him  to 

26 


NO  MANNERS;  NO  MORALS 

stand  on  his  head  and  recite  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles 
(which  he  had  once  digested  for  examination  pur- 
poses) he  wou!4  have  done  so  at  once.  He  felt 
vaguely  that  he  was  not  making  the  best  of  himself; 
he  also  felt  an  intense  desire  to  be  brilliant  and  witty. 
What  he  actually  did  was  to  blush  slowly  and  pain- 
fully in  an  agony  of  apprehension  lest  she  might 
guess  his  condition,  which  of  course  she  had  done 
from  the  first  moment. 

"May  I  come  in  on  Sunday  evening?"  she  asked. 

"Oh  .  .  .  do!"  said  Tristram,  and  knew  at  once 
that  he  had  burnt  his  boats  and  crossed  swords  with 
his  father.  She  smiled  to  him  and  disappeared  into 
her  room,  leaving  the  boy  standing  quite  helplessly 
where  she  had  left  him.  She  caught  sight  of  him 
there,  through  her  French  windows,  and  smiled 
again. 

"Quelle  debacle!"  she  murmured  as  she  went  up 
to  dress  for  Andrea. 

As  for  Tristram,  he  knew  at  once  that  she  was 
the  loveliest  creature  he  had  ever  set  eyes  on,  and 
that  she  was  the  last  person  on  earth  to  appeal  to 
his  father.  Moreover,  he  knew  she  would  come  on 
Sunday  evening,  and  his  mind  seethed  with  mixed 
emotions.  He  was,  of  course,  intensely  anxious  to 
see  her  again,  but  how  her  appearance  would  be 
greeted.  .  .  .  Besides,  Heslop  would  be  there — he 
wondered  how  Heslop  would  like  her,  and  he  won- 
dered whether  he  would  be  able  to  conceal  his  own 
.  .  .  yes,  passion  .  .  .  passion.  He  repeated  it 

27 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

under  his  breath  several  times.  Passion  is  such  a 
dignified  word  for  male  weakness.  The  voice  of  his 
father  recalled  him  to  earth. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  standing  in  the 
middle  of  my  lupin  bed?"  it  said. 

After  dinner  Iris  was  sitting  in  her  room,  not  yet 
completely  furnished,  with  Andrea,  as  usual  in  his 
role  of  listener,  opposite  her. 

"I  have  already,"  she  said,  "made  friends  with 
the  people  next  door.  Or,  at  any  rate,  I  have  in- 
sulted them  by  mistake,  which  comes  to  the  same 
thing." 

"I  w  inder,"  returned  Andrea  slowly,  "what  they 
will  think  of  you.  I  should  not  imagine  they  are 
precisely  your  sort." 

"I  have  met  most  sorts  of  people,  Andrea,  and 
never  yet  had  a  failure." 

He  nodded. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "you  have  been  worshipped, 
and  people  have  been  afraid  of  you — but  you've 
never  yet  been  ignored." 

She  rose. 

"I  never  shall  be,"  she  answered. 

"No,"  he  returned,  "I  don't  think  you  will;  but  it 
would  be  very  good  for  you.  You  would  respect  me 
much  more  if  I  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  ignore 
you." 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "but  I  should  entirely  lose 
any  respect  for  myself." 

He  frowned. 

28 


NO  MANNERS;  NO  MORALS 

"You  sometimes  make  me  very  angry,  Iris,"  he 
murmured.  "You  are  beautiful  and  you  are  clever, 
but  your  life  has  led  you  into  places  where  nothing 
is  priced  at  its  right  value.  You  are  extravagant 
of  youth,  and  you  do  not  seem  to  realise  that  life 
is  not  a  question  of  minutes  but  of  years."  He  broke 
off  and  regarded  her  almost  paternally. 

"You  have  never  had  a  real  sorrow,"  he  said. 

"I  do  not  want  one,"  she  answered. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  turned  towards  the 
door. 

"Black  is  quite  as  valuable  as  white,"  he  said. 
"Both  of  them  separate  the  myriad  colours  of  life, 
and  give  them  to  us  in  their  real  values.  You  can- 
not understand  the  morning  till  you  have  lain  down 
with  sorrow." 

"In  other  words,"  she  said,  "I  am  trivial?" 

He  thought  she  was  angry,  and  turned. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  he  said.  "I  cannot  help  a 
damnable  sincerity  sometimes." 

"And  I,"  she  returned,  "cannot  help  a  damnable 
insincerity." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "but  you  can  I  That  is  the  worst 
of  it.  You  would  be  angry  if  I  accused  you  of  having 
principles.  Yet  you  have,  or  you  could  not  be  what 
you  are !"  He  broke  off.  "May  I  come  down  on 
Monday  to  say  good-bye?" 

"Of  course,"  she  answered.  "Andrea,"  she  said, 
as  he  was  turning  to  the  door;  "I  want  to  kiss  you." 

29 


He  came  back  into  the  room,  and  she  held  his  Face 
in  her  hands. 

"Your  lips  are  very  beautiful,  Andrea,"  she  mur- 
mured, "very  beautiful.  It  is  because  you  have  a 
beautiful  mind.  .  .  ."  He  felt  all  at  once  weak — 
almost  feminine.  What  strength  was  between  them 
was  all  hers.  It  was  a  sensation  exquisite  in  its  un- 
manliness.  She  seemed,  with  her  lips,  to  draw  his 
very  soul  out  of  him,  caress  it,  and  put  it  back.  .  .  . 

"Iris,"  he  said  suddenly,  "you  have  never  kissed 
me  before." 

"There  are  very  few  men  whom  I  have  kissed," 
she  said,  "though  I'm  afraid  there  are  many  men 
who  have  kissed  me." 

"My  God!"  he  muttered  suddenly.  "I  did  not 
know  .  .  .  it  is  wonderful-*— a  kiss  like  that!" 

He  saw  her  smiling  at  him  from  the  hearth-rug, 
and  felt  that  he  was  showing  a  lack  of  control.  It 
was  above  all  things  what  he  hated  in  others;  yet 
it  was  quite  true  that  he  had  been  taken  off  his 
balance. 

"And  I  said  that  you  were  insincere!"  he  said 
slowly.  He  came  back.  "I've  been  in  most  places, 
Iris,"  he  said;  "I've  seen  a  great  deal;  I  am  what 
they  would  call  a  man  of  the  world,  but — but  I 
never "  He  broke  off. 

"You've  never  before  been  kissed,"  she  ventured, 
and  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  smile.  He  passed 
his  hand  across  his  forehead;  somehow  he  looked 
ashamed. 

30 


NO  MANNERS;  NO  MORALS 

"Kiss  me,"  he  whispered.     "Kiss  me  again  1" 
She  half-closed  her  eyes. 

"Your  lips  aren't  beautiful  now,  Andrea,"   she 
said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ADVOCATUS   DIABOLI 

THERE  is  nothing  more  trying  than  to  be  told  one 
is  bilious  when  one  is  suffering  from  a  grand  passion. 
That  is  where  motherly  women  like  Mary  Cumbers 
fail.  Tristram  had  been  quite  unable  to  eat  any- 
thing at  Sunday  night  supper,  and  although  this 
caused  some  slight  alarm  to  his  mother  it  was  really 
just  as  well,  for  anticipation  and  indigestion  are 
closely  allied.  The  Reverend  John,  as  usual,  ate 
heartily  and  talked  a  great  deal.  Tristram  regarded 
him  as  yet  another  complication  in  what  he  could 
only  look  upon  as  a  coming  disaster.  His  father 
had  not  failed  to  inform  him  as  to  his  views  on  the 
princess  next  door,  and  the  boy  had  foolishly  felt  it 
out  of  the  question  to  tell  him  that  they  had  already 
met.  This,  of  course,  made  the  position  more  im- 
possible than  ever. 

Mr.  Cumbers  was  talking  about  life.  As  he  knew 
practically  nothing  about  it,  it  was  naturally  his 
favourite  topic. 

"I  cannot  stand,"  he  was  saying,  "extraordinary 
people;  no  one  has  a  right  to  be  extraordinary." 

32 


ADVOCATUS  DIABOLI 

"Yet  I  do  not  know  anybody,"  said  the  clergy- 
man, "who  is  not  extraordinary." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  retorted  the  other,  "that 
you  consider  me  an  extraordinary  man?" 

"Perfectly  amazing,"  answered  the  Reverend 
John. 

"Well,  really,  Heslop,"  protested  Mr.  Cumbers 
(secretly  a  little  flattered),  "what  on  earth  do  you 
mean?" 

"We  are  all  amazing,"  murmured  the  other,  "be- 
cause we  live  in  imaginary  worlds.  Wasn't  it 
Montaigne  who  wrote  that  amusing  essay  on  the 
power  of  imagination?  Coarse,  very  .  .  .  but  ex- 
tremely amusing.  I  wonder  if  we  have  become 
hypersensitive?  I  do  so  believe  in  geniality.  Fancy 
having  John  Knox  in  one's  parish!  But  of  course 
we  have  all  become  trivial  nowadays.  Anything 
serious  is  a  bore.  That's  a  pity.  .  .  .  What  was  I 
saying?  Oh,  imagination — yes!"  He  turned  to 
Mrs.  Cumbers.  "You  know,"  he  said,  "one  oughtn't 
to  eat  so  many  salted  almonds — may  I  have  some 
more?  You  see  .  .  .  quite  early  we  make  up  our 
conception  of  the  world — and  then  our  minds  get  set, 
and  that's  the  world  we  live  in — it's  all  a  question  of 
environment,  of  course.  .  .  .  I'm  sure  my  idea  of 
England  is  all  wrong."  ...  He  nibbled  vaguely  at 
an  almond.  "It  would  be  awfully  good  for  all  of 
us,"  he  murmured,  "if  something  stupendous  were  to 
happen." 

There  was  a  silence  as  he  stopped  speaking.  This 

33 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

generally  happened,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the 
Reverend  John,  once  started  on  one  of  his  disjointed 
trains  of  thought,  rapidly  took  everyone  out  of  their) 
depth. 

"Dear  me  I"  he  said.  "I  really  talk  disgracefully; 
I  ought  to  have  been  a  Trappist." 

Mr.  Cumbers  cleared  his  throat  a  little  pompously. 

"Personally,"  he  said,  "I  find  so  many  people 
superfluous." 

"Oh,  they  are,  they  are,"  assented  the  clergyman. 
"I  always  think  that's  such  an  excellent  reason  for 
believing  in  God.  Because,  you  see,  they  can't  really 
be  ...  nature  is  never  wasteful." 

"And  it's  so  nice,"  put  in  Mary  Cumbers,  "to  be 
able  to  be  charitable." 

They  rose,  and  the  Vicar  said  a  grace. 

"It's  a  bit  chilly  outside,"  said  Mr.  Cumbers. 
"You  don't  mind  a  pipe  in  the  drawing-room, 
Mary?" 

It  was  a  question  of  weekly  interest  to  Tristram 
what  would  happen  if  she  said  "Yes."  But  she  never 
did,  and  they  always  smoked  their  pipes  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

"If  Tristram  wasn't  engaged  to  be  married,"  said 
the  Vicar,  "one  might  suppose  he  was  in  love." 

"I  wonder  what  love  is,"  said  Tristram  moodily. 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy,"  cried  his  mother,  "don't  you 
love  Muriel?" 

"Of  course  he  does,"   Mr.   Cumbers  answered. 
34 


ADVOCATUS  DIABOLI 

"As  for  asking  what  love  is,  it's — it's — what  is  it, 
Heslop?" 

"It's  what  happens  when  two  people  of  opposite 
sex  take  a  mistaken  view  of  one  another,"  said  the 
clergyman. 

"Dear,  dear!"  murmured  Mrs.  Cumbers.  "What 
a  terrible  thing  to  say!" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  Reverend  John.  "Seeing 
what  the  world  is,  I  think  we  should  all  try  to  take 
as  mistaken  a  view  of  our  neighbours  as  possible." 

The  maid  came  in  mysteriously  with  a  card  on  a 
tray.  Mrs.  Cumbers  regarded  it  stupidly  and  blinked 
at  her  husband. 

"Well,  well,"  said  he,  taking  the  card.  "Who 
is  it?" 

"The  lady  is  outside  in  the  hall,"  returned  the 
maid. 

"Better  show  her  in." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Mr.  Cumbers  looked  puzzled.  "How  do  you  pro- 
nounce that  name,  Heslop?"  he  said,  handing  the 
card  to  the  clergyman. 

"Iranovna,"  returned  the  other.  "Russian,  I 
suppose." 

"Never  heard  the  name  in  my  life,"  said  Mr. 
Cumbers.  "Who  on  earth  can  it  be?  Sunday  eve- 
ning, tool" 

"I  think,"  said  Tristram  uneasily,  "it  is  the  lady 
next  door." 

Any    cross-examination    was    cut    short    by    the 

35 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

entrance  of  Iris.  She  came  forward  at  once  to  Mrs. 
Cumbers. 

"I'm  afraid  this  is  quite  the  wrong  time  to  call," 
she  said,  "but  at  least  I  come  by  invitation;  your 
son  asked  me." 

"I'm  sure  we're  very  pleased "  began  Mrs. 

Cumbers,  with  her  eye  on  her  husband. 

"My  name  is  Iris  Olga  Iranovna,"  said  Iris,  "but 
Iranovna  is  such  a  mouthful  that  everyone  calls  me 
Iris  right  from  the  start." 

Here  Mr.  Cumbers  felt  he  would  like  to  assert 
some  authority. 

"Very  pleased — very  pleased,"  he  said  gruffly. 
"Allow  me  to  introduce  the  vicar  of  our  parish — 
the  Reverend  John  Heslop— Madame  Ira — 
Iran " 

"Madame  Iris,"  she  said  smoothly.  The  Rever- 
end John,  seeing  his  host  beginning  to  assume  the 
appearance  of  a  pouter  pigeon,  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Charmed,"  he  said.  "I  always  like  to  meet  the 

inhabitants  of  my  parish,  even  if "  he  hazarded. 

"Perhaps  they  are  not  of  my  church?" 

"I'm  a  Roman  Catholic,"  said  Iris,  as  she  sat 
down,  "as  far  as  I  can  remember,  but  I  like  Anglican 
clergymen  better  than  others.  Priests  make  me  feel 
so  wicked." 

"After  all,"  he  answered,  "that  is,  in  part,  what 
we  are  for." 

She  laughed. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  she  said,  "I  came  in  to 
36 


ADVOCATUS  DIABOLI 

apologise  to Do  you  know,  I  don't  know  your 

name?" 

"Cumbers,"  said  Henry  shortly. 

"To  Mr.  Cumbers,"  went  on  Iris.  "I  took  him 
for  the  gardener  the  other  day." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Henry. 

"Oh,  but  I  did;  of  course  you  didn't  mind.  But 
I  felt  an  apology  was  quite  a  good  excuse  for  getting 
to  know  you  all." 

Mr.  Cumbers  was  silent. 

"Do  you  come  from  Russia?"  hazarded  Mrs. 
Cumbers  timidly. 

"My  father  was  a  Russian,  but  I  doubt  if  my 
mother  would  know  him  by  sight  now.  He  was 
one  of  those  here-to-day-and-gone-to-morrow  fath- 
ers. I  never  saw  him  in  my  life.  And "  she 

laughed  merrily,  "I  was  divorced  by  a  Russian,  too, 
so  I  suppose  I'm  as  Russian  as  anything." 

"Charming  people,  Russians,"  murmured  the 
Reverend  John,  wondering  how  long  it  would  be  be- 
fore Henry  Cumbers  exploded.  "I  knew  a  most 
fascinating  Russian  in  San  Francisco.  A  most  cul- 
tured man — wonderful  manners,  too.  Unfortunately 
he  poisoned  his  mother  and  they  had  to  get  rid  of 
him." 

"What  did  he  poison  her  for?"  asked  Tristram. 

"Oh,  money,  of  course,"  said  Iris.  "I  always  feel 
I  could  respect  a  man  who  poisoned  his  wife  because 
she  was  ugly." 

"Yes,"  said  the  clergyman  quite  seriously;  "it  is 

37 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

extraordinary  that  beauty  is  always  considered  a 
luxury  .  .  .  whereas,  of  course,  it's  a  necessity." 

"Perhaps,"  rejoined  Iris,  "it  is  because  it  is  so 
expensive." 

"I  see  no  reason  at  all,"  said  Henry  Cumbers,  who 
was  in  a  state  of  hardly-suppressed  fury,  "why  beauty 
should  be  expensive.  A  simple  country  girl  in  a  cot- 
ton frock " 

Iris  laughed  aloud. 

"A  complex  West  End  beauty  in  a  Paris  gown 
will  make  her  feel  lonely  every  time !  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  this  jade  isn't  helping  my  eyes?  Of 
course  it  is." 

"I  daresay — I  daresay,"  said  Mr.  Cumbers,  de- 
termined to  be  heard;  "but  some  people  prefer  to 
live  simply,  and  this  family  is  of  their  number;  I 
don't  wish  to  discuss  jade  on  a  Sunday  evening " 

Iris  looked  at  him  under  her  lashes.  She  realised 
that  he  was  furiously  angry  and  that  he  was  regard- 
ing her  in  the  light  of  an  undesirable  acquaintance. 
Life  to  her  was  a  question  of  looking  for  amusement, 
and  to  annoy  the  little  bustling  man  on  the  hearth- 
rug seemed  to  offer  a  mone  enjoyable  evening  than 
a  book  next  door.  He  was  very  small  game,  but 
he  would  do. 

And,  besides,  there  was  the  whimsical  clergyman, 
who  might  prove  a  more  worthy  duellist,  and  .  .  . 
the  boy.  She  smiled  at  Mrs.  Cumbers. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  don't  believe  your 


ADVOCATUS  DIABOLI 

husband  has  forgiven  me  for  mistaking  him  for  the 
gardener." 

"I  don't  like  to  be  unpleasant  in  my  own  drawing- 
room,"  began  Henry  Cumbers  impressively;  but  she 
broke  in: 

"That's  easy,  then,"  she  said.  "Don't."  She 
turned  to  the  vicar.  "Aren't  my  manners  dreadful?" 
she  said. 

"Fearful,"  he  answered.  "But  what  are  manners, 
after  all?  Didn't  Catherine  the  Great  kick  her 
guests  downstairs?  Or  was  it  Cleopatra?  Still,  of 
course,"  he  added,  "there  are  limits." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Iris,  looking  Henry  full  in  the 
face,  "what's  wrong  about  me  that  you've  taken  such 
a  violent  dislike  to  me?" 

Mr.  Cumbers  tried  to  hedge  at  once. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  began.  "No- 
body wants  a  scene  less  than  I  do.  .  .  ."  He  was  a 
little  bewildered  at  the  turn  of  events. 

"But  then,"  murmured  the  Reverend  John, 
"Madame  Iranovna  is  simply  spoiling  for  a  scene, 
and  one  must  always  give  a  lady  what  she  wants." 

Iris  recognised  in  the  clergyman  a  diplomatist  of 
no  mean  calibre. 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Cumbers,  fluttering  like  a 
frightened  bird,  "that  no  one  wants  a  scene." 

Tristram  strode  suddenly  to  the  door. 

'I  think  Madame  Iranovna  has  been  treated  per- 
fectly damnably,"  he  said,  and  went  out. 

Iris  followed  him  with  her  eyes. 
39 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"Quelle  debacle!"  she  said  again. 

"Ah,  yes,"  murmured  the  clergyman,  "but  on 
whose  side  are  the  big  battalions?" 

Henry  Cumbers  suddenly  began  to  shout. 

"This  is  no  fault  of  mine,"  he  said.  "I  don't  un- 
derstand such  manners;  I'm  glad  to  be  an  English- 
man. As  you  seem  to  have  taken  possession  of  my 
drawing-room,  madame,  I  and  my  wife  will  leave  it 
until  you  have  gone ;  and  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will 
consider  my  doors  closed  to  you  in  future!" 

He  followed  his  son,  steering  the  trembling  Mary 
skilfully  through  the  narrow  door. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  the  Reverend  John,  "that 
is  the  first  time  I  ever  remember  seeing  Cumbers 
completely  in  the  right." 

"Oh,  he's  absolutely  in  the  right,"  said  Iris.  "I 
suppose  you  think  I'm  rather  a  mystery?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no — you've  been  spoilt,  that's  all.  The 
world  spoils  beauty,  my  dear  young  lady,  as  it  tries 
to  spoil  all  good  things.  You  were  dull ;  you  wanted 
a  scene.  You  thought  you  would  shock  a  rather 
humdrum  family.  Personally,  I  have  misjudged 
you ;  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  done  it 
rather  better." 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence.  There  was  some- 
thing very  irritating  yet  fascinating  about  the  old 
gentleman. 

"I  have  known,"  she  said  slowly,  "several  men  of 
your  age  who  have  fallen  in  love  with  me.  .  .  ." 

He  nodded. 

40 


ADVOCATUS  DIABOLI 

"Of  course,"  he  said.  "Old  age  is  not  nearly  so 
inhuman  as  you  young  people  imagine  it." 

She  picked  up  her  cloak. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "you  ought  to  be  very 
angry  with  me ;  I  have  behaved  disgracefully." 

"I  quite  agree,"  he  answered.  "If  it  is  not  im- 
pertinent, why  were  you  divorced?" 

"I  stuck  a  knife  into  my  husband." 

He  nodded. 

"Yes,  yes;  of  course,  it  would  be  something  like 
that.  Dear  me,  what  a  passion  people  have  for  lik- 
ing to  feel  peculiar !  We  must  be  individual.  .  .  . 
Why?  Look  at  Napoleon.  .  .  .  However,  that's 
not  the  point.  Do  you  want  me  to  explain  you  away 
to  the  Cumbers  family?" 

She  frowned. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  believe  you  could; 
that  makes  me  very  angry.  No.  I  don't  want  you 
to  explain  me;  I'll  educate  him  myself."  She  went 
to  the  door.  "That's  pretty  impertinent  of  me,  isn't 
it?"  she  added. 

'Quite  charming,"  said  the  Reverend  John,  as  he 
held  the  door  open  for  her.  "I  quite  agree;  one's 
elders  are  not  always  one's  betters;  it  will  be  a  very 
interesting  experiment." 

At  the  front  door  she  wished  him  good-night. 

"Good  night,"  he  answered.  "And,  by  the  way, 
Tristram,  the  boy,  is  engaged  to  be  married.  You 
might  get  some  amusement  there,  you  know." 

Iris  was  not  thinking  of  the  Cumbers  family  as 
41 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

she  re-entered  her  home;  she  was  thinking  of  the 
clergyman.  "Why  is  it,"  she  said  to  herself,  "that 
old  men  always  know  too  much  or  too  little?" 

His  smile  and  his  good-natured  tolerance  of  her 
rather  foolish  peccadillo  had.  made  her  feel  much 
more  trivial  than  any  of  Andrea's  ponderous  lectures. 
She  would  have  liked  to  triumph  over  the  Reverend 
John — to  bully  him  with  her  face  and  figure  as  she 
was  in  the  habit  of  bullying  all  the  men  she  came 
across.  Arrived  in  her  own  room,  she  stood  for 
some  moments,  fingering  a  Sevres  cup  on  the  mantel- 
piece. He  had  treated  her  as  a  child — as  a  naughty 
child.  Unlike  most  women,  Iris  hated  to  be  re- 
minded that  she  was  young.  The  Sevres  cup  sud- 
denly cracked  in  her  hand.  Anger  always  expressed 
itself  physically  with  her. 

"Damnation!"  she  said.  Then  she  threw  the 
saucer  into  the  grate  after  the  cup.  She  regarded 
her  handiwork  for  some  moments;  then  she  smiled. 
"The  old  gentleman  is  quite  right,"  she  murmured. 
"I'm  a  child — but  I'm  a  very  successful  child,"  she 
added  quickly. 

Suppression  of  the  truth,  according  to  Mr. 
Cumbers,  was  a  great  deal  worse  than  a  lie.  He 
pointed  out  to  his  wife  that  Tristram  had  deliberately 
withheld  from  them  both  the  fact  that  he  had  met 
"the  creature"  (as  Iris  now  became),  and  also  that 
he  had  invited  her  in.  To  all  intents  and  purposes, 
therefore,  he  had  lied  in  the  matter. 

42 


ADVOCATUS  DIABOLI 

"And  why,"  he  asked  portentously,  "why  does  a 
boy  lie  to  his  parents  about  a  woman?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  unhappy  Mary  Cumbers. 

"You  know  perfectly  well,  Mary,"  returned  her 
husband. 

"Of  course,  Henry,  she  is  beautiful,  you 
know " 

"It  is  not  what  I  call  beauty,"  retorted  Mr.  Cum- 
bers, determined  to  yield  Iris  nothing.  "But  all 
boys  are  fools,  and  when  low-neck  comes  in  at  the 
door,  common-sense  flies  out  at  the  windows." 

"But,  dear,"  ventured  Mary,  "Tristram  is  en- 
gaged to  Muriel." 

"Bah!"  said  Mr.  Cumbers  contemptuously,  as  the 
door  opened  and  the  Reverend  John  came  in,  hold- 
ing his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"Good  night,  Mrs.  Cumbers,"  said  the  clergyman. 
"I  must  get  along  back  to  the  Vicarage — I  always 
spend  too  long  in  this  house — mustn't  give  way  to  it. 
Good  night." 

On  the  doorstep  Mr.  Cumbers  attempted  an 
apology. 

"Absolutely  intolerable,"  he  said;  "absolutely  in- 
tolerable. Did  you  ever  see  such  an  impossible 
woman  in  your  life,  Heslop? — impossible  in  every 
way." 

The  Reverend  John  fixed  a  dreamy  eye  on  the 
flickering  lamp-post  near  the  garden  gate. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "I  rather  liked  her. 
Faults,  of  course — but  they  are  so  splendidly 

43 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

obvious;  and  which  of  us  can  throw  stones?  Hosts 
of  friends,  I  expect  .  .  .  and  that's  all  doing  good, 
you  know — radiating.  .  .  .  Still,  I  wonder  what 
she'd  be  like  in  a  disaster?"  He  dug  his  umbrella 
into  the  gravel  path.  "Look  at  her  face  .  .  .  and 
her  wits,"  he  said.  "If  God  spoils  people,  what  do 
you  expect  the  world  to  do?  Yes — I  rather  liked 
her.  Good  night." 

Mr.  Cumbers'  indignation  left  him  speechless. 
For  a  moment  he  watched  the  old  gentleman's  figure 
as  it  went  up  the  road  casting  shadows  under  the 
gas-lamps  that  leapt  and  pirouetted  about  much  like 
his  nimble  and  kindly  mind. 

At  last  the  outraged  apostle  of  regular  hours 
turned  to  his  wife. 

"There,"  he  said,  spluttering  indignantly,  "there ! 
That's  what  I  always  say  about  Heslop!" 

Upstairs,  in  the  dark,  and  sitting  upon  the  edge 
of  his  bed,  Tristram  was  telling  himself  that  he  was 
the  victim  of  an  irretrievable  disaster. 


44 


CHAPTER  V 

SORCERY 

IN  the  cold  light  of  day  one  might  have  expected  the 
outrageous  behaviour  of  Iris  at  Applegarth  to  have 
appeared  to  her  in  its  proper  light.  But,  on  the  con- 
trary, she  woke  up  more  determined  than  ever  to 
"educate  the  little  man,"  as  she  put  it  to  herself,  and 
force  him  to  capitulate  to  her  charms  as  so  many 
had  capitulated  before.  The  somewhat  inauspicious 
opening  to  her  stay  in  English  Suburbia  merely  made 
her  the  more  determined  to  bring  its  society  to  her 
feet.  She  loved  a  fight  almost  as  much  as  she  loved 
a  victory,  and  the  fact  that  it  was  a  fight  entirely  ot 
her  own  making  did  not  in  the  least  affect  her  em 
thusiasm  for  battle.  She  was  fairly  sure  that  Mr. 
Cumbers  would  set  his  own  circle  of  friends  against 
her,  and  the  whole  absurd  and  trifling  conflict  was 
now  regarded  by  Iris  as  a  heaven-sent  substitute  for 
the  tedium  of  her  self-banishment.  It  appeared 
simply  an  amusing  way  of  expiating  her  bad  temper 
in  St.  Petersburg.  Moreover,  she  was  ridiculously 
anxious  to  flaunt  a  triumph  in  the  face  of  the  Rev- 
erend John,  who  had  said  she  was  spoilt  and  whom 
she  suspected  of  not  believing  in  her  capabilities  (a 

45 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

suspicion  which  was  far  from  being  the  case) .  What 
was  annoying  was  the  old  gentleman's  refusal  to  put 
himself  in  the  opposition;  there  is  no  fun  in  forcing  a 
citadel  to  surrender  when  its  gates  have  never  been 
closed.  From  all  the  foregoing  it  will  be  seen  that 
Iris,  although  the  Reverend  John  had  professed  to 
probe  her  so  easily,  was  in  truth  a  somewhat  complex 
personality.  Although  she  would  often  let  drop 
phrases  of  which  the  wisdom  was  quite  startling, 
would  deal  with  the  problems  of  her  life  (such  as 
they  were)  with  a  shrewdness  and  sagacity  worthy 
of  weightier  affairs,  and  hold  her  own  and  more 
than  her  own  with  all  manner  of  folk  who  had  at 
least  the  proverbial  right  to  be  called  her  betters; 
yet  it  is  always  necessary  to  remember  that  she  had 
seen  but  twenty-five  summers  and  was  in  many  ways 
nothing  but  a  spoilt  child.  She  was  ripening  in  an 
age  where  cleverness  and  wisdom  were  being  gen- 
erally confounded,  when  the  dinners  of  Society  were 
made  up  much  like  the  banquets  of  Nero,  with  a 
view  to  epigrams,  literary  blasphemies,  or  any  of 
the  thousand  and  one  fireworks  which  Fashion  de- 
manded from  hour  to  hour.  As  a  vestal  of  this 
temple  Iris  had  found  herself  admirably  suited.  She 
had  flitted  in  triumph  from  the  effete  society  of  one 
great  capital  to  another,  always  in  demand,  always 
amused  or  amusing.  Being  one  who  could  shift  the 
minor  disasters  of  life  from  her  shoulders  as  easily 
as  a  dog  shakes  the  water  from  his  back,  she  had 
long  since  forgotten  the  sorrows  and  privations  of 

46 


SORCERY 

her  childhood  and  had  learnt  to  appraise  herself 
wholeheartedly  at  the  valuation  which  the  world  set 
upon  her.  Unconsciously,  almost,  she  had  come  to 
regard  all  those  with  whom  she  came  in  contact  as 
playthings,  the  price  of  which  was  merely  that  she 
herself  should  be  willing  to  be  a  plaything  too.  This 
is  a  habit  of  mind  easily  acquired  by  the  ministrations 
of  flattery  and  applause,  and,  just  as  the  round  and 
mediocre  Mr.  Cumbers  sailed  placidly  along  the 
backwaters  of  his  existence,  so  did  the  brilliant  and 
exotic  Iris  flutter  equally  easily  along  her  own  highly- 
coloured  meadows.  Both  were  really  depending  on 
the  same  thing;  that  is,  that  the  world  remained  in 
the  same  state  as,  subconsciously,  they  considered 
they  had  a  right  to  expect  of  it.  For  his  part,  Mr. 
Cumbers  regarded  the  ridiculous  affair  with  his  next- 
door  neighbour  very  seriously  indeed.  He  was  in 
the  habit  of  regarding  everything  seriously.  From, 
the  point  of  view  of  a  just  sense  of  values  this  is  as 
hopeless  a  habit  as  the  lighthearted  triviality  affected 
by  Iris.  To  him  it  appeared  monstrous  that  a  woman 
should  invade  his  house,  which  he  firmly  regarded 
as  his  castle,  and  make  him  feel  uncomfortable.  He 
felt  there  was  something  lacking  in  the  proper  con- 
duct of  affairs  where  no  redress  could  be  obtained 
for  such  an  abomination.  His  dignity  had  been 
severely  affronted;  he  would  therefore  degrade  it 
still  more  by  standing  upon  it,  which,  of  course,  was 
exactly  what  Iris  wanted  above  everything.  If  Mr. 
Cumbers  had  refused  to  play,  the  game  would  be 

47 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

automatically  at  an  end.  Thus  she  was  put  in  the 
greatest  good  humour  when  he  answered  her  of- 
fensively cheerful  "good  morning"  by  deliberately 
turning  his  back  and  walking  into  the  house.  Later 
in  the  day  he  was  driven  almost  beside  himself  by 
the  sight  of  Tristram  in  earnest  conversation  with 
her  over  the  box-hedge,  an  utterly  inadequate  moral 
breastwork.  This  conversation  was,  of  course,  ar- 
ranged by  Iris  for  the  benefit  of  the  churchwarden. 
But  the  one  person  who  was  really  suffering  was 
Mrs.  Cumbers;  not  that  she  had  any  real  fear  of  a 
disaster  as  far  as  Tristram  was  concerned;  she  knew 
instinctively  that  he  would  not  appear  worth  while 
in  the  eyes  of  Iris.  Indeed,  she  would  have  been 
a  great  deal  more  disturbed,  and  reasonably  so,  had 
it  been  a  daughter  whom  she  had  dazzled  rather 
than  a  son.  But  as  that  part  of  Mr.  Cumbers' 
theory  of  life  which  dealt  with  the  position  of  women 
considered  a  wife  as  a  kind  of  air-cushion  to  be 
pounded  when  one  is  out  of  temper,  it  was  Mary 
Cumbers  who  sustained,  as  it  were,  the  backwash 
of  the  quarrel.  It  was  on  Tuesday  that  Iris,  who 
took  exercise  strictly  for  the  sake  of  her  complexion 
and  who  was  expecting  Andrea's  farewell  visit  that 
afternoon,  set  out  for  a  walk  over  the  Heath. 
Hampstead  Heath,  though  always  a  little  thread- 
bare, like  any  of  the  playgrounds  of  a  great  city, 
presents  in  the  early  summer  a  pleasant  enough  de- 
ception for  those  who  feel  the  gnawing  need  of  the 
countryside.  There  is  one  little  bit  in  particular, 

48 


SORCERY 

not  three  hundred  yards,  as  it  happens,  from,  the 
high  road,  where  bracken  and  gorse  (and  later  on 
blackberries)  conspire  quite  successfully  to  wing  the 
imagination  as  far  as  the  lanes  and  silences  of  South 
Devon.  Here,  if  only  some  urban  bumble-bee  will 
provide  the  requisite  musical  accompaniment,  all  the 
peace  of  the  world  and  the  promise  of  Heaven  may 
be  garnered  into  a  little  clearing  behind  the  bracken, 
and  in  the  half-shade  of  a  silver  birch  you  may  give 
yourself  up  for  a  short  time  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
lotus-eater — just  foretelling  things  if  you  are  young, 
and  remembering  things  if  you  are  old.  It  was 
here  that  Iris,  exploring,  true  to  her  instincts,  the  by- 
ways of  the  Heath  rather  than  its  too  well-trodden 
paths,  came  suddenly  upon  a  heap  of  black  propped 
against  a  tree-trunk,  all  arms  and  legs,  but  owning, 
apparently,  no  face.  It  did  not  take  her  long,  how- 
ever, to  decide  that  this  was  not  a  matter  for  the 
police.  The  clothes  were  those  of  a  clergyman  and 
the  face  was  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  it  was 
covered  by  a  wide-brimmed  clergyman's  soft  hat. 
Something  in  the  sprawling  and  shapeless  figure 
seemed  familiar,  and  so,  with  characteristic  im- 
pertinence, she  stooped  down  and  took  the  hat  off  the 
face.  The  Reverend  John,  for  it  was  he,  stirred  un- 
easily and  woke  up.  He  stared,  in  that  childlike 
way  in  which  all  people  regard  things  when  they  are 
half  awake,  at  the  figure  of  Iris  standing  over  him 
and  holding  his  hat  in  her  hand.  Then  he  shifted 
himself  cumbrously  to  a  sitting  position. 

49 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"Conventionally,"  he  said,  "I  ought  to  apologise; 
practically  I  am  going  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 
God  made  the  ground  for  me  to  lie  on  and  I'm  not 
in  the  least  sorry  for  lying  on  it.  I  don't  say  all 
conventions  are  bad  .  .  .  quite  the  contrary  .  .  . 
but  I  cannot  see  any  reason " 

She  laughed  and  interrupted  him. 

"I  do  not  want  you  to  apologise,"  she  said.  "I 
want  you  to  make  room  for  me." 

"The  question  is,"  he  replied,  without  moving, 
"whether  I  am  old  enough  to  be  able  to  afford  to  be 
seen  sitting  in  the  bracken  with  you.  I  am  only 
sixty-seven,  and  you  are  a  Viery  beautiful  young 
woman.  On  the  whole,  I  think  I  will  get  up  and 
walk  with  you;  it  looks  less  intimate." 

He  rose  clumsily  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"Do  you  often  do  this?"  asked  Iris. 

"Lie  in  the  bracken?"  replied  the  clergyman. 
"Why,  yes.  Whenever  I  get  the  opportunity.  I  al- 
ways feel  there  are  not  any  commandments  to  break 
in  the  bracken.  Which  way  are  you  going?  I'm 
going  back  to  the  Vicarage." 

"I'm  not  going  anywhere,"  said  Iris.  "I  may  as 
well  come  your  way." 

"Not  going  anywhere !"  re-echoed  the  clergyman. 
"You  may  as  well  come  my  way!  What  a  text  I  .  .  . 
I  often  wonder  whether  I'm  going  anywhere.  How- 
ever, no  one  ought  to  talk  shop,  ought  they?" 

"That,"  retorted  Iris,  "is  a  very  foolish  conven- 
50 


SORCERY 

tion,   as  it's  the  only  thing  most  people  can  talk 
about." 

"And  what's  your  shop  ?"  queried  the  old  gentle- 
man. 

"Oh,  myself,  I  suppose,"  she  answered. 

"Probably,"  he  murmured,  "a  subject  on  which 
you  know  nothing.  Cumbers,  for  instance,  does  not 
consider  himself  a  peculiar  man,  simply  because  the 
people  in  his  office  do  not  expect  him  to  do  peculiar 
things.  .  .  .  Yet  nothing  would  induce  him  to  lie 
in  the  bracken.  You  and  I  are  much  less  peculiar 
than  he  is." 

"You  think,"  said  Iris,  "that  I  would  lie  in  the 
bracken?" 

"Of  course  you  would,"  said  the  Reverend  John. 
"So  would  any  healthy-minded  person." 

Iris  was  silent;  she  had  never  regarded  hers'elf  as 
a  healthy-minded  person  at  all,  and  found  herself 
unaccountably  rather  insulted. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  suddenly,  "you  rather 
despise  me?" 

"I?"  cried  the  clergyman.  "Indeed  not;  apart 
from  the  fact  that  to  despise  anyone  argues  a  very 
unhealthy  state  of  mind,  I  am  bound  to  respect  your 
accomplishments.  The  only  thing  is " 

"Well?"  she  asked.  She  found  herself  quite  un- 
usually interested  in  his  verdict. 

"Well,"  the  old  gentleman  went  on  enigmatically, 
"a  thunderstorm  brings  out  the  worms,  but  kills  the 
butterflies." 

51 


"But  then,"   she  said,   "one  can  avoid  thunder* 
storms  by  going  indoors.'* 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No  good,"  he  murmured.     "There  is  no  escape 
from  life ;  at  least,  there  is  only  one." 

"And  what  is  that?"  asked  Iris. 

"To  cultivate  the  state  of  mind  where  one  does 
not  want  to  escape." 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  slowly,  "whether  you  are  as 
wise  as  you  sound." 

"I  am,  at  any  rate,"  he  answered,  "a  great  deal 
wiser  than  I  have  need  to  be.  It  is  the  tendency  of 
the  age.  We  are  just  like  children.  Look  at  all  the 
toys  God  has  put  into  the  nursery  for  us!"  He 
waved  his  arm  with  a  characteristic  gesture.  "And 
will  we  play  with  them  in  the  ordinary  way?  Dear 
me,  no!  We  must  pull  them  to  pieces  to  see  how 
they  work.  Not  that  I'm  against  science — certainly 
not.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  if  we  knew  less  we  might 
guess  more.  What  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  think  I  could  get  through  life  on  guess- 
work. It  would  be  all  very  well  for  you.  You  live 
in  your  study,  you  see." 

The  old  man  chuckled  merrily. 

"Yes,"  he  said  ironically,  "my  inexperience  is. 
amazing.  I  suppose  to  the  young  an  old  man  has  al- 
ways been  an  old  man." 

"You  think  I've  been  impertinent?"  said  Iris. 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  took  her  hand. 

"No,    no,"    he    murmured    earnestly;    "do    not 
52 


SORCERY 

imagine  that.  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  demand 
respect  because  the  blood  is  running  thinner  in  their 
veins.  Youth  should  be  respected  because  it  can 
afford  to  give  so  much,  while  we  old  people  can 
only  take.  Look  upon  me  as  the  steel  against  which 
to  set  the  flint  of  your  wit.  That  will  do  us  both 
good — and  I  confess  the  debt  is  still  on  my  side,  for 
you  are  very  pleasant  to  look  upon." 

"Come  to  tea  on  Sunday,"  she  answered. 

He  laughed. 

"And  if  you  can  possibly  make  a  scandal  out  of 
so  ancient  a  Samson,  you  will.  Never  mind.  My 
hair  is  still  thick.  I  snap  my  fingers  at  you.  I  will 

come! 

*  *  *  * 

"The  vicar  of  this  parish,"  said  Iris  to  Andrea 
over  the  tea,  "is  the  most  amusing  and  the  cleverest 
man  I  have  ever  met." 

"How  old  is  he?"  asked  the  other. 

"Sixty-eight,"  answered  Iris. 

"A  very  admirable  age,"  commented  Andrea 
dryly.  "I  should  hardly  think  even  you  could  do  him 
much  harm." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  rejoined  Iris  modestly.  "Old 
men  are  rather  a  foible  of  mine."  And  so  indeed 
they  were.  If  it  was  a  question  of  causing  some- 
one to  make  a  fool  of  himself,  Iris  would  rather 
an  old  than  a  young  man.  The  incongruity  of  such 
affairs  tickled  her,  and  she  was  not  one  who  took 
great  pleasure  in  easy  conquests. 

53 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"And  how,"  asked  Andrea,  "did  you  get  on  with 
the  people  next  door?" 

"Not  allowed  to  enter  the  house  again,"  answered 
Iris  cheerfully. 

The  Russian  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Already!"  he  said,  breaking  a  tea-cake  in  two. 

"Immediately,"  laughed  Iris.  "But  the  son  is 
•desperately  in  love  with  me,  and  I'm  looking  for- 
ward to  a  great  deal  of  fun  with  the  father." 

"Poor  devil!"  returned  Andrea. 

"But  he  behaved  abominably,"  she  cried.  "Al- 
most as  abominably  as  I  did;  and  he's  a  man." 

Andrea  shrugged  his  shoulders.     Then  he  rose. 

"It  will  be  amusement  for  you,"  he  said,  "at  any 
rate.  Meanwhile,  Iris,  I  want  to  come  to  a  definite 
understanding  about  our  marriage." 

She  was  silent. 

"Though  I  know,"  he  went  on,  "that  it  is  quite 
foreign  to  your  nature  to  make  any  definite  state- 
ment on  the  subject,  I  don't  want  to  go  back  to 
Russia  without  knowing  the  date  of  the  wedding." 

She  still  said  nothing,  and  the  rather  elaborate 
cloak  of  words  which  he  was  wearing  to  cover  his 
emotion  fell  away. 

"Oh,  my  God,  Iris,"  he  said,  "don't  you  know  how 
I  love  you?  You  are  afraid,  because  Maurice  also 
told  you  he  loved  you.  Bah!  Maurice!  A  good- 
looking  animal,  but,  even  as  an  animal,  lukewarm. 
He  couldn't  love,  it  wasn't  in  him.  Tell  me,  did  you 
ever  kiss  Maurice  as  you  have  kissed  me?" 

54 


SORCERY 

"No,"  she  said,  and  turned  away  to  the  window. 
He  looked  at  her  silhouette  against  the  sky  and  won- 
dered why  men  must  always  be  tortured  in  the  things 
they  love.  Suddenly  she  turned  back. 

"Sit  down,  Andrea,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  talk 
to  you."  He  seated  himself  on  the  sofa  and  she 
stood  by  the  mantelpiece. 

"I  do  love  you,  Andrea,"  she  began.  "I  love  you 
very  much.  I  am  happiest  when  you  are  with  me 
.  .  .  but" — she  paused — "but  I  am  not  unhappy 
when  you  are  away,"  she  went  on.  "I  think  that  is 
really  the  whole  thing  in  a  word,  but  I  suppose  I 
must  explain.  I'm  not  one  of  those  women  who  fall 
in  love,  go  to  church  and  say  hereafter  my  whole 
being  is  centred  on  my  husband  and  my  children,  all 
my  love  is  confined  to  the  four  walls  of  my  home.  I 
daresay  those  are  the  best  kind  of  women,  but  it's 
no  use  pretending  to  be  what  you  aren't,  is  it?" 

She  moved  away  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  a  chair. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  Maurice  imagined  I 
would  change  after  marriage.  Why?  There  is  no 
more  reason  that  the  marriage  service  should  make 
one  a  different  woman  than  that  the  Communion 
should  make  one  a  good  woman.  There  are  too 
many  things  in  the  world  to  love,  Andrea,  for  me  to 
give  you  all  mine.  Do  you  understand?  I  love 
beauty  and  colour,  I  love  wit  and  brains.  It  is  not 
that  I  admire  them.  I  love  them  with  the  same  love 
that  I  have  for  you.  Marriage  to  me  means  the  op- 
portunity of  living  with  you  and  enjoying  each 

55 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

other's  society  without  the  disadvantages  of  being 
called  immoral.  That's  all.  I'm  going  to  live  my 
own  life,  Andrea,  and  I'm  not  going  to  attempt  to 
change  my  nature.  I'm  a  butterfly,  and  a  butterfly 
I'm  going  to  remain." 

"Ah,"  murmured  the  man,  "but  a  butterfly  with 
brains!" 

"All  that  that  means,"  returned  Iris,  "is  that 
everybody  will  say  I  ought  to  know  better.  I  daresay 
I  ought ;  but  tell  me  this — if  you  marry  me,  you  are 
giving  up  nothing.  You  are  not  a  vicious  man  and 
you  have  no  pleasures  which  you  will  feel  it  your 
duty  to  tear  yourself  away  from.  Is  it  fair  to  ask 
me  to  change  my  nature  in  return?" 

"I  am  not  asking  you  to,"  he  said. 

"Very  well.  Listen !  I  am  pretty  and  I'm  clever 
and  I  can  make  people  laugh,  and  you  need  never 
treat  me  like  a  lady,  which  is  what  spoils  most 
women  for  most  men.  On  the  other  hand,  I  shall 
grow  old  and  I  have  a  perfect  beast  of  a  temper. 
I  ask  you  to  imagine  my  temper  without  me  to  carry 
it  off." 

He  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  checked  him. 

"No — waitl  I  have  any  amount  of  private  vices 
which  you  know  nothing  of.  I  am  selfish,  and  as 
impulsively  cruel  as  I  am  impulsively  kind.  They 
go  together.  If  I  found  I  hated  you  in  a  couple  of 
years,  I  should  not  think  it  moral  to  go  on  living 
with  you.  If  you  take  me  it  is  up  to  you  to  keep 
me.  I  don't  pretend  that  that  does  not  sound  like 

56 


SORCERY 

perfectly  hopeless  vanity,  but  I'm  simply  laying 
myself  bare.  I  am  not  going  to  be  married  again  on 
a  false  prospectus.  It's  the  worst  form  of  company- 
promoting.  You  wonder  why  I  tell  you  so  much. 
Well,  it's  because  I  love  you  a  great  deal,  but  not 
enough.  If  I  loved  you  to  the  exclusion  of  every- 
thing else  I  should  certainly  try  to  possess  myself  of 
you  by  deceiving  you  into  thinking  I  was  prepared 
to  be  the  most  faithful  and  domestic  of  wives;  I 
could  tell  you  the  names  of  several  girls  who  are  suc- 
cessfully deceiving  their  husbands  and — of  course, 
their  children.  But  I  don't  want  to  do  that.  The 
husband  is  perfectly  happy,  but  the  girl  isn't.  Well, 
that's  all  there  is ;  I  don't  think  I've  ever  talked  so 
much  before  without  being  interrupted.  What's  the 
verdict?'* 

"I  want  to  know,"  said  Andrea,  "the  date  of  the 
wedding." 

"In  that  case,"  she  returned,  taking  his  hand,  "I 
may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  Andrea,  more 
than  I've  ever  loved  anyone  in  my  life." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"But  remember,  Andrea,"  she  cried,  "I  am  more 
than  half  a  boy!" 

"How?"  he  asked. 

She  tapped  her  forehead  and  left  him  wondering. 
Later  on  he  left  her. 

She  had  promised  to  marry  him  in  Russia  after 
six  months  of  what  she  called  "recovering  from 
Maurice."  Andrea  was  much  elated  as  he  packed 

57 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

up  his  trunks  that  night  and  made  the  last  prepara- 
tions for  his  departure.  Moreover,  Iris  had  spoken 
nothing  but  the  truth  when  she  had  told  him  that 
she  loved  him  better  than  anyone  she  had  loved  in 
her  life.  He  satisfied  her  partly  because  she  knew 
she  was  his  superior.  She  loved  his  strength  because 
she  loved  to  pit  her  own  against  it.  She  loved  his 
brain  for  its  persistent  and  dogged  following  of  her 
own.  She  loved  him  when  he  pretended  to  be  upset 
at  finding  her  reading  a  work  on  the  vices  of  Helio- 
gabalus,  or  hearing  her  quote  paragraphs  from  the 
more  lurid  moments  of  Dr.  Rabelais.  She  knew 
that  he  really  admired  the  masculinity  of  her  mind, 
and  that  it  was  a  matter  of  perpetual  wonder  to  him 
that  the  things  men  spend  their  lives  (quite  unneces- 
sarily) hiding  from  their  womenkind  could  be  as 
open  between  himself  and  Iris  as  with  any  of  his 
male  friends.  Of  course,  if  men  knew  what  school- 
girls talk  about,  cotton-wool  chivalry  would  be  at  an 
end.  But  they  don't,  or  pretend  they  don't,  which 
comes  to  the  same  thing.  Thus  Andrea  and  Iris  met 
on  common  ground,  so  that  he  liked  a  woman  who 
was  his  equal,  and  she  liked  to  feel  she  was  his 
superior;  and  when  he  had  gone  she  spent  quite  a 
considerable  time  in  a  state  of  sentimental  depres- 
sion, which  was  a  very  delightful  sensation.  Then 
she  curled  herself  up  in  a  many-coloured  hammock 
which  had  come  from  some  Czech  bazaar,  and  which 
she  had  had  slung  across  the  corner  of  her  drawing- 
room,  and  started  to  re-read  her  Arabian  Nights 

58 


(unexpurgated  edition).  But  the  languorous  sens- 
uality of  its  pages  merely  served  to  throw  into  higher 
relief  the  absence  of  Andrea.  After  all,  it  was  good 
to  have  him  there,  to  play  with  him,  or  let  him 
listen  to  her;  and  in  the  rare  moments  when  she  felt 
feminine  enough  to  want  to  be  held  and  caressed, 
to  know  that  he  would  make  as  good  an  active  as  a 
passive  lover.  So  now  that  he  was  gone,  her  arms 
seemed  suddenly  very  empty,  and  she  appeared  very 
much  alone  in  an  inhospitable  suburb.  The  moods 
of  a  butterfly  do  not  amount  to  very  much,  but  to  the 
butterfly  they  are  quite  real.  Iris  was  beginning 
to  take  her  loneliness  seriously,  when  her  maid 
entered  the  room  and  announced  Miss  Muriel  Hud- 
son. Now  naturally  enough,  Tristram  had,  very 
early  in  the  proceedings,  told  Iris  of  his  engagement 
and  its  humdrum  character,  and  the  efforts  of  the 
unfortunate  boy  to  speak  loyally  of  Muriel  had  been 
a  source  of  vast  amusement  to  the  wicked  little 
Russian. 

She  turned  to  the  glass  to  make  a  few  extra  prep- 
arations for  the  reception  of  the  aggrieved  fiancee. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Muriel's  visit  was  the  outcome 
of  a  long  talk  which  Mr.  Cumbers  (who  was  taking 
the  whole  affair  very  seriously)  had  seen  fit  to  have 
with  his  future  daughter-in-law :  warning  her  in  gen- 
eral terms  of  the  wickedness  of  this  world,  hinting 
darkly  at  the  undermining  of  Tristram's  morality, 
and  suggesting,  with  many  shakes  of  the  head,  that 
the  sooner  they  got  married  the  better.  Whereupon 

59 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

Muriel  had  gone  straight  to  Tristram,  and  wormed 
the  whole  story  out  of  him  in  a  few  minutes.  He 
must  ask  her,  he  had  said,  to  release  him  from  his 
engagement.  Yes,  it  was  true.  He  loved  another 
woman.  There  was  no  idea  of  marriage.  He  did 
not  suppose  he  should  ever  marry — now.  Marriage 
was  for  those  lucky  everyday  individuals  who  do  not 
love  too  well.  For  the  wild  and  sad  Bohemians  of 
the  world  (i.e.  Tristram)  marriage  was  nothing, 
love  everything.  Let  Muriel  choose  some  man  who 
would  be  worthy  of  her,  and  make  her  a  good  hus- 
band. (By  which  he  meant  somebody  dull  enough 
to  remain  faithful  to  his  wife.)  For  him  a  passion 
which  could  never  be  consummated  would  colour  his 
waking  and  sleeping  hours  to  the  day  of  his  death. 
He  supposed  he  had  behaved  badly  to  Muriel.  For 
that  he  was  sorry.  But  it  was  better  to  understand 
each  other,  was  it  not?  A  very  fine  speech,  with  a 
note  of  infinite  sadness  and  dignity  in  the  last 
sentence,  so  much  so  that,  being  rather  carried  away 
by  his  own  pathos,  Tristram  actually  had  kissed  her 
hand  and  left  the  room,  like  the  middle-aged 
raisonneur  in  the  play,  who  renounces  everything  in 
the  second  act,  and  is  understood,  in  the  third,  to  be 
in  Nova  Scotia  doing  good. 

Muriel  had  looked  at  her  hand,  laughed,  and  gone 
home;  but,  as  she  was  genuinely  fond  of  Tristram 
and  still  clung  to  the  hope  that  one  day  he  would 
suddenly  turn  into  a  man,  she  thought  over  the  mat- 
ter a  great  deal  and  decided  to  call  on  the  en- 

60 


SORCERY 

chantress.  She  wanted  to  point  out  to  her  that 
though  it  may  have  caused  Circe  a  distinct  effort  to 
turn  Ulysses'  companions  into  swine,  it  was  matter 
for  little  congratulation  to  have  turned  Tristram 
Cumbers  into  an  ass. 

When  she  entered  Iris*  drawing-room,  however, 
she  was  so  struck  with  her  surroundings  that,  her 
thoughts  springing  at  once  to  her  lips  (as  they  always 
did),  she  was  only  able  to  ejaculate  "What  a  lovely 
room !"  though  immediately  she  had  said  the  words 
she  realised  how  bad  a  start  they  were  to  the  battle 
she  had  come  to  fight. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  said  Iris.  "It's  rather  a 
chance  whether  people  like  it  or  not.  I  know  a  man 
who  says  that  greens  and  blues  and  purples  make 
him  feel  so  wicked  that  he  wants  to  call  a  policeman 
and  give  himself  in  charge  every  time  he  comes  into 
my  room." 

"It  is  a  beautiful  room,"  murmured  Muriel.  "It 
makes  me  feel  you  have  an  advantage  over  me." 

"Certainly,"  answered  the  other.  "It  is  always 
wise  to  fight  on  one's  own  ground.  But  are  we  going 
to  fight?" 

"Of  course  we  are,"  said  Muriel. 

Iris  nodded. 

"About  Tristram,"  she  said.  "Oh,  very  well;  if 
you  like." 

"He  told  you  about  me?"  asked  the  other. 

"Almost  immediately." 

"What  did  he  say  about  me?" 
61 


Iris  laughed  softly. 

"He  was  very,  very  loyal,"  she  answered  in  her 
deep,  rich  voice.  "He  loaded  you  with  all  the  deadly 
virtues.  You  were  good  and  noble  and  ...  oh! 
yes — you  were  unswerving  in  your  devotion  to  him. 
He  said  he  was  utterly  unworthy,  and  sighed  about  it 
a  great  deal." 

Muriel  answered  nothing,  but  let  her  eyes  wander 
round  the  room. 

"Tristram,"  she  answered  at  last,  "is  not  nearly 
so  foolish  as  you  imagine." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?"  asked  Iris. 

"After  all,"  said  the  girl,  "I  have  known  him  for 
hearly  ten  years." 

Iris  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  daresay  he  will  grow  up,"  she  said. 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  Muriel  asked,  "that  he 
wants  to  break  off  his  engagement  to  me  because  he 
has  fallen  in  love  with  you?" 

"I  didn't  know  it,"  returned  Iris,  "but  I  suppose 
it  was  bound  to  happen." 

"What,  that  he  should  fall  in  love  with  you?" 
Iris  smiled. 

"What  do  you  think?"  she  said.  She  sank  down 
on  to  the  rug  at  Muriel's  feet.  She  seemed  to  ar- 
range herself  round  her  own  limbs.  Her  eyes,  catch- 
ing the  last  rays  of  the  sun  from  the  garden,  looked 
like  two  great  emeralds  in  a  white  setting.  Her  lips 
were  parted  in  a  slight  smile.  She  was  waiting. 

Muriel  started  and  looked  down  at  her,  but  made 
62 


SORCERY 

no  movement.  It  was  as  if  they  had  been  a  piece 
of  statuary:  an  allegorical  study,  for  those  that  had 
eyes  to  see,  of  the  nearness  of  intangible  things  and 
the  power  of  imagination  to  work  miracles.  Any 
mediaeval,  respectable  citizen,  catching  that  light  in 
Iris'  eyes,  would  have  fled  shrieking  down  the  street 
and  roaring  lustily  for  the  watch.  Whereafter  men 
with  long  beards  and  grave  eyes  would  denounce  ex 
cathedra  all  sorceries  and  black  magics,  in  the  name 
of  Holy  Church,  and  cause  to  be  set  up  in  the  mar- 
ket-place a  stake  and  faggots,  round  which,  however, 
on  the  roasting  of  the  sorceress,  not  all  the  priests 
and  deacons  and  acolytes  and  monks  and  tapers  could 
prevent  the  stamping  of  the  horses  that  have  no 
hooves  and  the  chuckling  of  the  devils  that  have  no 
mouths.  All  this  (and  other  matter)  in  a  pair  of 
green  eyesl 

But  still  Muriel  did  not  move ;  not  even  when  she 
felt  the  other  girl's  hand  resting  on  her  knee.  For 
a  brief  moment  she  experienced  a  feeling  of  fear, 
but  it  went  as  quickly  as  it  had  come,  and  indeed  she 
could  never  have  said  what  it  was  of  which  she  had 
been  afraid.  Her  lips  also  parted  in  a  smile  and 
her  hand  crept  down  to.find  the  other's.  She  realised 
that  something  had  happened.  They  were  no  longer 
enemies — no  longer  even  strangers.  She  was  in  an 
atmosphere  she  had  never  before  experienced;  it 
was  very  pleasant.  She  did  not  greatly  care  how  it 
had  come  about.  There  it  was,  and  the  common 
sense,  for  which  she  was  so  often  praised  by  her 

63 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

friends  and  relations,  seemed  to  have  been  left  next 
door.  She  found  she  could  do  without  it.  She  bent 
her  head  nearer  to  Iris'  upturned  face.  The  Russian 
fingers  were  gently  encircling  her  hand.  She  sighed 
in  a  great  contentment. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  murmured;  and  when  she  said 
it  she  was  not  thinking  about  Tristram  at  all.  .  .  . 

Later  on  they  dined  together,  and  Iris  told  her 
strange  tales  by  candlelight  which  made  her  eyes 
more  like  emeralds  than  ever.  Tristram  was  not 
even  mentioned.  With  Iris  time  did  not  seem  to 
exist;  they  sat  together  on  the  divan,  and  when  she 
stopped  talking  Muriel  would  say,  "Go  on" — and 
close  her  eyes  for  more.  When  she  left  it  was  one 
o'clock. 

"You  wonderful  woman,"  she  said  on  the  door- 
step. "Kiss  me."  So  they  kis~sed,  and  Muriel 
thought  she  had  known  her  seven  hundred  years. 

Thus  it  was  that  Muriel,  the  staid  and  highly 
respectable,  arrived  back  at  her  mother's  house  at 
twelve  minutes  past  one.  Her  mother,  almost  pros- 
trate with  anxiety,  was  sitting  up  for  her. 

"Good  gracious,  Muriel,"  she  said,  "where  have 
you  been?" 

"Talking,"  said  the  girl,  and  would  not  add  an- 
other word.  As  has  been  already  said,  not  very 
long  ago  Iris  would  have  been  burnt  as  a  witch. 

Up  in  her  room  the  Russian  smiled  to  herself 
sleepily.  She  was  very  tired. 


ON   ODDNE8S 

ON  the  following  Sunday  the  Reverend  John  came 
to  tea. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  as  his  great  hulk  framed  itself 
in  the  doorway,  "I  am  here."  He  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  thick  hair.  "But  at  the  first  sight  of  a 
pair  of  scissors,"  he  added>  MI  shall  run  to  the  Vicar- 
age as  hard  as  I  can." 

"Ah,"  she  said  suddenly,  as  he  sat  down,  with  the 
^rape-coloured  curtains  forming  a  background  for 
his  Michael  Angelo  head,  "how  splendid  you  would 
look  in  a  cardinal's  robe!" 

"A  sense  of  colour,"  said  the  old  clergyman,  "is  a 
dangerous  thing." 

She  poured  out  the  tea  and  fixed  him  with  her 
eyes. 

"Now  what,"  she  said,  "do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"It's  apt  to  make  one  discontented,"  answered  the 
other  enigmatically. 

"Do  you  like  my  room?"  queried  Iris. 

He  nodded. 

"So-so,"  he  replied.  "It's  unwholesome,  of 
course.  I  knew  a  woman  who  had  a  villa  at  Fiesole 

65 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

who  went  in  for  these  sort  of  colours.  She  said  it 
expressed  her  individuality.  Of  course,  there's  no 
more  to  be  said  to  that  sort  of  thing;  in  a  sense  the 
tub  expressed  Diogenes'  personality."  He  broke 
off.  "Do  you  know,"  he  added  suddenly,  "that  in  a 
small  circle  you  have  created  quite  a  sensation?" 

"Tristram?"  asked  Iris. 

"No;  Muriel." 

The  Russian  moved  across  to  the  window.  Muriel 
had  been  to  Dangerfield  several  times  since  that  first 
jiight. 

"I  like  Muriel,"  she  said  slowly. 

"That  is  not  in  the  least  peculiar,"  returned  the 
Reverend  John.  "The  odd  thing  is  that  Muriel  likes 
you." 

"I  made  her,"  said  Iris. 

"I  know  you  did,"  answered  the  old  man.  Some- 
thing in  his  tone  made  her  turn  round.  He  had  got 
up  and  was  regarding  her  a  little  seriously  from  un- 
der his  shaggy  eyebrows. 

"I  know  you  did,"  he  repeated  slowly.  "You 
know,"  he  went  on,  "to  have  all  that  force  at  your 
command  and  to  go  on  playing  with  things  is  rather 
criminal." 

"Would  you  advise  me  to  become  a  nun?"  she 
asked  with  a  smile. 

"Heaven  forbid!"  he  cried,  and  threw  up  his 
hands  in  mock  alarm. 

"Why  not?"  she  pursued. 

"For  the  sake  of  the  nunnery,"  answered  the 
66 


ON  ODDNESS 

clergyman,  with  a  laugh.  "But,  seriously,  you  seem 
to  have  made  an  immense  impression  upon  Muriel." 

He  sat  down  and  sighed. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  I  must  preach  a 
little  sermon  to  you." 

"Very  well,"  she  answered;  "I  shall  enjoy  that." 

"Incorrigible !"  he  murmured.  She  passed  behind 
him  and,  stopping  a  moment,  looked  down  at  the 
top  of  his  head. 

"You  have  wonderful  hair,"  she  said;  "quite  won- 
derful." 

"Delilah  I"  laughed  the  old  man.  "That  is  not 
the  way  my  parishioners  prepare  to  listen  to  my  ser- 
mons." She  slipped  down  beside  him,  sitting  on  the 
rug  and  looking  at  him  with  mock-innocent  eyes. 

"Is  that  beter?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "it  is  not.  If  you  were  my 
daughter  I  think  I  should  send  you  to  bed." 

"I  would  like,"  she  said  softly,  "to  have  been 
your  daughter."  There  was  a  moment's  silence  while 
he  looked  down  at  her  and  saw  that  she  was  genuine ; 
his  hand  rested  on  her  head  and  a  troubled  look 
passed  across  his  eyes. 

"You  would  have  made  a  wonderful  father,"  she 
said,  and  suddenly  took  his  hand  in  hers. 

"I  would  rather  have  been  a  good  father,"  whis- 
pered the  old  man,  "than  the  greatest  prelate  in 
Christendom.  I  would  rather  have  a  child  who 
would  come  to  me  in  trouble  than  preach  the  finest 

67 


'A.  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

sermon  in  the  world.  I  would  have  loved — oh,  I 
would  have  dearly  loved — to  bring  up  someone  to 

be  dean  and  merry "  He  paused,  and  the  old 

hand  shook  a  little.  "Ah,  the  sentimental  old  fool  I" 
he  went  on.  "That  is  what  you  are  thinking.  'Why, 
in  three  years  I  shan't  be  thirty  and  he'll  be  seventy. 
What  right  has  he  to  dabble  in  life  and  other  folks' 
loves  who  is  half-dead  already,  and  for  whom  love 
is  reduced  to  a  yellowing  packet  locked  up  in  a  tin 
box  I*  Well,  my  dear  lady,  it  was  yourself  set  me 
off  when  you  honoured  me  by  wishing  I  had  been 
your  father,  and  if  I've  been  a  little  more  emotional 
than  good  manners  allow,  I'll  ask  you  to  remember 
that  I'm  an  old  man." 

He  stopped,  and  for  a  moment  neither  spoke. 

"A  most  embarrassing  old  gentleman,  tool"  he 
laughed  suddenly.  "Trotting  out  his  musty  heart 
before  a  stranger — eh?" 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that  at  all,"  she  said  in- 
dignantly. "I  was  thinking  of  the  yellow  packet  in 
the  tin  box." 

"Ah,"  he  answered,  "I  know  people  don't  do  that 
nowadays — packets  tied  up  with  ribbon  I  It's  an 
anachronism  1" 

"Love  will  be  an  anachronism  soon,"  she  said  in 
one  of  her  rare  moments  of  self-disgust. 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  comes,"  he  said,  "from  wanting  to  do  every- 
thing on  the  cheap — live  on  the  cheap,  think  on  the 

68 


ON  ODDNESS 

cheap,  feel  on  the  cheap.  One  gets  afraid  of  the  big 
things — like  the  lonely  man  who  wouldn't  keep  a 
dog  in  case  it  died." 

Iris  felt  a  little  cheap  herself. 

"Is  this,"  she  said,  "the  beginning  of  your  ser- 
mon?" 

"Ah,  no,"  he  said;  "I  had  forgotten  my  sermon." 

"Oh,  Samson,"  she  laughed,  "take  care  of  your 
hair!" 

"Listen,"  he  said,  holding  up  a  monitory  finger. 
"I  am  in  the  pulpit.  English  people  do  not  like  odd 
things.  You  are  odd.  You  have  done  something 
odd  to  Muriel.  In  the  days  when  people  were  more 
healthy  minded  it  would  have  been  called  black 
magic.  Now  we  call  it  odd.  You've  looked  at  her 
with  those  great  eyes  of  yours,  and  she  has  seen 
things.  .  .  .  What  things,  I  wonder?  Bits  of  ro- 
mance, I  dare  say,  and  queer  glimpses  of  other  lives 
than  her  own — a  sort  of  opium  dream.  I  am  quite 
serious.  I  think  you  act  as  a  drug  on  people.  I 
don't  pretend  to  explain  the  abnormal  powers  of 
human  beings,  but  I  do  know  they  exist.  If  I  could 
get  inside  Muriel's  mind  I  should  know  what  you 
had  done  to  her.  I  do  not  like  sudden  conversions. 
They  are  bad  for  people,  and  Muriel  is  past  the 
schoolgirl  age.  It  seems  a  little  thing  to  make  such 
a  fuss  about,  but  .  .  .  but  Muriel!  You  see,  with 
her  it's  odd  .  .  .  it's  queer.  What  did  you  do  to 
her?"  he  said  suddenly,  looking  her  in  the  eyes. 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

She  did  not  answer  his  question. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  a  bad  friend  for  Muriel  Hud- 
son?" she  asked. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "so  long  as  it  is  this  side 
idolatry.  But  it's  a  curious  position,  isn't  it?  Her 
fiance  is  in  love  with  you,  and  if  that  little  affair  had 
gone  its  proper  way  it  would  have  been  good  for 
everybody.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  just  wha^ 
Tristram  needs.  If  you  remember,  it  was  I  who  sug- 
gested it  to  you.  But  now  that  Muriel  suddenly  be% 
comes  your  devoted  friend  I  Well,  good  heavens! 
my  dear  lady — what  is  poor  Tristram  to  do  ?  You 
leave  him  no  part  to  play  at  all.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  counted  on  fascination,  but  not  on  witchery!" 

"Well,"  asked  Iris,  "what  has  happened?" 

"Mr.  Cumbers  is  beside  himself,"  said  the  Rev* 
erend  John.  "Muriel  is  forbidden  the  house:  I  told 
you  English  people  don't  like  odd  things.  Worst 
of  all,  Muriel  doesn't  seem  to  mind  a  bit.  The 
whole  thing  is  rather  inexplicable,  you  understand. 
So,  of  course,  it  is  much  more  talked  about  than  is 
good  for  it.  In  fact,  amongst  their  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances, 'L'affaire  Tristram'  is  rapidly  becom- 
ing an  unpleasant  scandal." 

"How  very  amusing!"  said  Iris.  "I  had  no  idea 
one  could  stir  up  such  a  lot  of  trouble  in  such  a  short 
time.  And  all  because  I  mistook  Mr.  Cumbers  for 
a  gardener!" 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  the  clergyman.  "All  be- 

70 


ON  ODDNESS 

cause  you  are  a  naughty,  selfish  young  woman  who 
doesn't  know  where  to  stop." 

"Ah!"  she  cried.     "Now  we  have  got  to  the  ser- 


mon." 


"No,"  answered  the  old  man;  "I  will  climb  down 
from  the  pulpit,  but  I  will  give  you  some  advice  all 
the  same." 

"What  is  that?" 

"Go  on  playing,  go  on  amusing  yourself,  go  on 
enjoying  the  fruits  of  your  great  gifts,  but  don't  play 
too  long,  and  provide  yourself  with  a  sheet-anchor. 
You  may  have  to  look  a  disaster  ]n  the  face  one  day, 
and  then,  my  dear  lady,  neither  your  face  nor  your 
frock  nor  your  wit  will  avail  you;  but  something 
that's  hiding  behind  all  that,  something  that  I  doubt 
whether  even  you  have  ever  seen  ...  I  mean  'you.* 
And  if  you  go  on  ignoring  that  lady  too  long,  be- 
cause you're  in  love  with  the  other  lady  who  is 
smiling  at  me  so  cynically  and  so  indulgently  at  this 
moment,  you  will  find  that  she  has  vanished  alto- 
gether from  pique,  and  your  best  ally  will  have  dis- 
appeared. That  is  all  the  sermon,  and  I  apologise 
humbly  for  getting  it  off  my  chest  while  you  are  my 
hostess.  Gross  bad  manners.  But  it's  because  I  like 
you,  and  so  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me." 

"Of  course  I  will  forgive  you,"  said  Iris,  who  had 
liked  the  sermon,  though  she  had  no  intention  of 
taking  its  advice.  She  was  at  the  moment  much 
more  interested  in  her  triumph  over  Muriel  and  the 

71 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

havoc  in  the  Cumbers*  menage.  She  liked  to  think 
of  herself  moving  all  these  people  about  like  pawns 
in  a  game  for  her  own  amusement.  She  had  to  be  a 
queen,  however  trivial  her  kingdom. 

But  the  ways  of  fate  are  as  strange  as  they  are 
just,  and  though  no  one  would  have  imagined  it  (not 
even  the  Reverend  John,  who  was  a  very  sound 
prophet  in  human  affairs) ,  it  was  Mr.  Cumbers  him- 
self, that  round  and  shiny  and  uninteresting  little 
gentleman,  who  was  quite  unwittingly  to  tear  away 
the  mask  that  the  Russian  wore  and  reveal  to  Iris 
•that  personality  whom  the  Vicar  had  called  "the 
other  lady."  Meanwhile,  on  flutters  the  butterfly, 
alighting  on  a  flower  here  and  there,  and  leaving  a 
trail  of  blooms  behind  all  bending  in  homage  after 
her  flight. 

A»  the  Reverend  John  took  his  departure  Iris 
shook  hands  with  him  and  smiled. 

"Muriel  is  coming  to  supper  to-night,"  she  said. 
The  old  gentleman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Cut  fcf«fc*  deo  permissa  potestas?"  he  said. 

"Thtnk  you  for  the  compliment,"  she  answered. 

"What!"  cried  the  clergyman.  "You  understand 
Latin?" 

"Not  one  word,"  she  laughed;  "but  it  couldn't 
have  been  anything  else  but  a  compliment,  could  it?" 

He  turned  and  bowed  to  her. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  with  the  appropriate  Johnson 
manner,  "you  are  an  insufferably  vain  woman." 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "  'Peccavi;  sed  sum  bona 
72 


ON  ODDNESS 

puellaf  There!  I  know  some  Latin,  after  all. 
You'll  come  and  see  me  again,  won't  you?" 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure  I  will — you  are  causing  too 
much  trouble  in  what  I  believe  is  called  my  flock." 

The  old  gentleman  sat  late  in  the  Vicarage  that 
night.  "Ah,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  rose  at  last 
and  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  "if  she  had 
been  my  daughter  I  think  I  could  have  put  her  on  the 
road  to  a  happy  life ;  but,  as  it  is,  she  is  at  the  mercy 
of  an  accident." 

He  actually  prayed  before  he  got  into  bed  that 
that  accident  should  never  happen.  But  he  prayed 
for  Tristram  Cumbers  too,  and  for  Henry  Cumber*, 
and  for  his  parish,  and,  indeed,  for  the  whole  un- 
deserving world,  and  he  commended  them  all  to  his 
God,  and  turned  out  the  light.  And  ten  minutes  later 
an  old  man  who  had  seen  many  sorrows  and  known 
many  disappointments  and  suffered  many  defeats, 
through  all  of  which  he  had  brought  his  soul  un- 
scathed and  unalarmed,  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  a 
child. 

And  so  also  was  Iris  Iranovna,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  who  was  selfish  and  vain,  and  had  stuck  a 
knife  into  her  husband,  and  was  the  cause  of  terrible 
heartburnings  amongst  several  perfectly  innocent 
people.  Whereas,  Henry  Cumbers,  who  had  done 
nothing  at  all,  tossed  on  his  mattress  in  a  very  fever 
of  rage,  so  that  Mary,  his  wife,  came  down  to  break- 
fast next  morning  with  red  and  swollen  eyes.  And 
Tristram  didn't  appear  at  all,  because  he  had  spent 

73 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

most  of  the  night  under  the  stars  in  the  garden,  and 
was  not  fit  to  be  seen. 

And  for  all  of  them  the  sun  rose,  grinning  as  usual, 
and  it  was  Monday. 


74 


How  many  lacuna  there  are  in  our  lives  I  Do  you 
remember  what  happened  to  you  the  first  three 
months  of  the  year  before  last?  You  had  breakfast 
and  lunch  and  dinner  and  went  to  bed  and  flew  into 
a  great  rage  at  the  state  of  your  winter  clothes  and 
had  colds  and  correspondence  and  probably  were 
pleased  and  despondent  no  more  and  no  less  than 
usual  .  All  very  probable,  but  you  don't  remember 
anything  about  it.  Nothing  happened,  you  say.  But 
at  the  time  you  were  fearfully  busy  and  never  had 
a  moment  to  spare  for  anybody.  In  a  story,  of  course, 
these  periods  when  people  are  so  busy  and  nothing 
happens  cannot  be  told.  They  are  dull.  "This  fel- 
low an  author!"  says  Pendleton  of  the  Stock  Ex* 
change,  picking  up  a  psychological  holocaust.  "Why, 
I'd  do  as  well  myself  if  I  had  the  time  and  kept  a 
diary.  Give  me  something  with  meat  in  it!"  For 
which  expression  of  opinion  there  is  a  great  deal 
to  be  said. 

So  then  there  now  occurred  several  weeks  during 
which  nothing  happened  at  all.  Tristram  continued 
to  make  rhymes,  and  his  father  persisted  in  annoy- 

75 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

ing  him  by  telling  him  to  get  his  hair  cut.  The  Rev- 
erend John,  on  those  Sunday  nights  when  he  shared 
the  Cumbers'  board,  was  made  to  discuss  the  position 
from  every  point  of  view.  He  was  at  length  driven 
into  the  rather  feeble  statement  that  as  marriages 
were  made  in  heaven  the  present  ridiculous  and  in- 
tolerable condition  of  affairs  was  probably  part  of  the 
heavenly  process  of  manufacture.  Henry  remarked 
to  his  wife  that  the  Vicar  was  getting  old. 

Meanwhile  the  friendship  between  Iris  and 
Muriel,  much  to  the  annoyance  and  mystification  of 
the  latter's  mother,  became  closer  and  closer.  That 
Iris  was  ever  really  interested  in  Muriel  or  that 
Muriel  was  the  type  of  girl  towards  whom  she  would 
naturally  have  been  drawn  I  am  not  prepared  to  ad- 
mit. But  it  certainly  flattered  her  vanity  to  be  able 
to  retain,  in  the  face  of  the  violent  opposition  which 
she  knew  the  other  experienced  in  her  own  home,  a 
friendship  which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  of  a 
highly  unnatural  nature.  She  liked  also  to  have 
someone  who  sat  at  her  feet  and  admired  her  beauty 
and  her  stories  alike  with  the  frank  astonishment  of 
a  child.  As  for  Muriel,  she  had  been  carried  off 
her  feet.  Twenty-three  years  in  one  house  amongst 
ordinary  surroundings  and  with  a  life  governed  by 
routine  had  caused  her  to  gobble  up  the  mental 
caviare  provided  by  Iris  with  the  alacrity  of  a  starv- 
ing tramp.  Not  that  Muriel  was  really  starved,  or 
that  in  all  probability  she  would  ever  have  kicked 
against  her  humdrum  life  at  all  had  not  fate  chosen 


IRIS  SITS  ON  A  THRONE 

to  throw  Iris  in  her  path.  If  her  life  had  been  un- 
eventful it  had  at  least  been  happy,  and  she  herself, 
with  excellent  common  sense,  had  always  been  the 
one  to  laugh  at  and  discourage  the  ineffectual  heroics 
of  Tristram.  But  now  she  was  bitter  with  the  disease 
herself.  The  richness  of  the  Russian's  temperament, 
her  well-told  stories  of  foreign  lands,  the  half  East- 
ern, half  European  and  wholly  erotic  colours  of  her 
rooms  and  frocks  acted  on  Muriel,  as  the  Reverend 
John  had  said,  like  an  insidious  drug.  Time  after 
time  she  would  find  her  way  to  Iris'  room  and  wait 
till  she  came  in,  turning  over  the  pages  of  strangely 
enticing  books  and  absorbing  the  influence  of  her 
surroundings.  On  one  occasion  Iris  had  surprised 
her  practising  that  curiously  characteristic  grace  with 
which  the  Russian  was  wont  to  drape  herself  at  the 
feet  of  her  companion.  Discovered,  Muriel  made 
no  attempt  to  conceal  what  she  was  doing,  but  ac- 
knowledged frankly  that  she  envied  her  the  ac- 
complishment. Then  Iris  would  laugh  and  tell  her 
of  the  graces  and  wit  of  some  reigning  beauty  of  her 
childhood  in  Vienna  and  of  the  stories  she  had  told 
and  those  told  of  her,  stories  vastly  improper  I  make 
no  doubt,  but  vastly  amusing  for  all  that.  And 
Muriel  would  sit  on  the  floor,  with  her  head  on  her 
companion's  knee,  half  turned  so  that  she  could  keep 
her  eyes  on  the  Russian's  mischievous  and  beautiful 
face.  And  she  would  be  angry  when  the  tea  came  In 
and  broke  the  thread  of  her  thoughts.  For  some 
time  her  admiration  was  hardly  "this  side  idolatry." 

77 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

The  Reverend  John  did  not  visit  the  house  again, 
but  he  met  Iris  several  times  in  the  street  and  smiled 
at  her  and  wagged  a  warning  finger  in  her  face.  As 
for  Tristram,  he  suffered  torments.  In  the  Cumbers 
household  the  whole  subject  of  Iris  was  taboo,  and 
so  the  boy,  who  would  have  welcomed  the  most 
dreadful  scene  so  long  as  it  centred  round  the  figure 
of  his  adored  one,  could  find  no  outlet  for  his  over- 
charged heart  at  all.  Muriel,  he  thought  gloomily, 
could  never  have  cared  for  him.  Her  conduct  settled 
that.  And,  of  course,  he  argued  that  he  had  never 
cared  for  her.  For  all  that  he  found  that  he  missed 
her  companionship,  even  though  his  whole  soul  were 
given  to  his  unapproachable  princess.  The  princess 
herself  used  to  flirt  with  him  every  now  and  then  for 
a  minute  or  two  over  the  box-hedge,  more  with  a 
view  to  keeping  the  situation  alive  than  for  any 
amusement  which  she  extracted  from  it.  To  tell  the 
truth,  Tristram  took  himself  altogether  too  seriously 
to  make  a  very  entertaining  lover.  He  covered  I 
don't  know  how  many  quires  of  paper  during  this 
period  with  verses  on  various  subjects:  "To  Love," 
"To  My  Mistress:  a  Prayer,"  "To  Cruelty  Divine," 
and  so  on  and  so  forth;  and  he  wrote  a  letter  to 
Muriel  almost  as  long  as  an  article  in  a  monthly  re- 
view, begging  her  forgiveness  for  the  way  he  had 
treated  her,  asking  her  to  release  him  and  herself 
from  an  engagement  which  prevented  her  compass- 
ing her  own  happiness  (he  himself,  of  course,  could 
never  be  happy),  and  winding  up  by  a  somewhat 


IRIS  SITS  ON  A  THRONE 

pathetic  expression  of  gladness  that  she  was  able  to 
be  on  such  intimate  terms  of  friendship  with  one  who 
would  do  him  honour  if  she  would  deign  to  wipe  her 
shoes  upon  him.  To  this  letter  Muriel  replied, 
"Don't  be  silly,"  and  did  not  release  him  from  the 
engagement,  so  that  the  unfortunate  lover  was  left 
in  the  same  position  as  before. 

About  this  time  also  Iris  received  a  letter  from 
Andrea — an  earnest,  convincing  letter  that  made  her 
quite  anxious  to  see  him  again.  She  wrote  back  to 
him,  telling  him  how  she  was  amusing  herself  and 
how  much  she  loved  him  and  was  looking  forward 
to  coming  out  to  Russia ;  after  which  she  took  up  the 
game  where  she  had  left  it  and  only  thought  of  him 
once  or  twice  until  the  coming  of  his  next  letter.  So 
you  see,  as  has  been  said  at  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter,  it  was  one  of  those  periods  where  everybody 
is  very  busy  and  nothing  happens.  Now  Iris  was 
one  of  those  curiously  constituted  individuals  who 
cannot  live  without  drama.  As  a  child  she  had  al- 
ways enjoyed  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  "scene." 
A  fight  in  a  back  street  and  High  Mass  appealed  to 
her  alike  on  their  common  basis.  Her  life  had  to  be 
a  series  of  situations  or  she  was  dull.  And  to  be 
dull  was,  for  Iris,  to  be  miserable.  Now,  therefore, 
she  set  herself  devising  some  mise  en  scene  in  which 
something  theatrical  might  be  made  to  grow  out  of 
the  present  position  and  in  which,  needless  to  say, 
she  herself  was  to  play  the  leading  part.  It  was  with 
this  in  view  that  she  broached  to  Muriel  the  idea 

79 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

that  they  should  give  a  party  together.  Muriel  was 
necessary  to  the  undertaking  in  order  to  make  sure 
that  the  guests  would  come.  The  Russian  was  al- 
ready too  much  an  object  of  suspicion  for  many  to 
risk  the  sneers  of  their  neighbours  by  accepting  her 
invitations.  But  with  Muriel  it  was  a  different  mat- 
ter. She  had  lived  in  the  place  all  her  life  and  made 
many  friends,  and  the  Reverend  John,  who  was  very 
fond  of  her,  would  be  sure  to  go  to  any  party  at 
which  she  was  a  hostess.  And,  of  course,  as  every- 
body is  well  aware,  where  the  Vicar  goes  the  world 
goes. 

When  Iris  made  this  proposition  to  Muriel  the 
girl  jumped  at  it.  Her  life  was  not  so  full  of  incident 
that  the  idea  of  being  a  hostess  at  a  party  did  not 
excite  her  immensely.  And  when  Iris  sketched  out 
to  her  ideas  for  the  entertainment  of  the  guests,  a 
supper  in  the  garden  weirdly  lighted,  a  hidden 
orchestra  far  enough  away  to  give  an  idea  of  great 
domains,  dancing  on  the  lawn — well,  is  it  any  wonder 
that  Muriel  threw  herself  at  once  into  the  scheme 
and,  indeed,  thought  of  nothing  else  day  or  night 
without  the  least  idea  that  she  was  being  used  as  a 
pawn  in  the  game  which  was  to  have  its  culmination 
in  the  social  triumph  of  Iris  and  the  discomfiture  of 
Henry  Cumbers? 

About  this  time  Mary  Cumbers  called  upon  Mrs. 
Hudson.  They  were  old  friends,  and  it  is  perhaps 
not  too  much  to  say  that  most  of  Mrs.  Cumbers'  real 
life  was  spent  in  the  companionship  of  Muriel  Hud- 

80 


IRIS  SITS  ON  A  THRONE 

son's  mother.  In  the  society  of  her  friend  Mary  was 
quite  a  different  person  from  the  wife  of  Henry 
Cumbers.  She  displayed  here  a  shrewd  common- 
sense  and  dry  humour  which  Henry  would  never 
have  associated  for  a  moment  with  his  life's  com- 
panion. Everybody  in  the  world,  it  is  said,  has  his 
use,  and  many  of  us  are  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  our 
own  particular  place  in  the  scheme  of  things.  Thus 
Mrs.  Hudson  had  no  idea  that  she  was  Mary  Cum- 
bers' safety-valve. 

"Muriel,"  she  said,  "is  quite  unreasonable  about 
this  dreadful  Russian  woman." 

"So,"   replied  Mary,   "is  Tristram." 

"But  that  is  at  least  natural,"  wailed  the  other. 
"Muriel  ought  to  hate  her.' 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Cumbers.  "But  there  it  is:  you 
can't  account  for  things,  so  you  must  take  them  as 
they  are.  At  least  Muriel  has  her  head  screwed  on 
the  right  way  round." 

"But,"  cried  Mrs.  Hudson  in  surprise,  "aren't  you 
dreadfully  worried?" 

"My  dear  Emily,"  said  the  other,  "what  is  the 
use  of  being  dreadfully  worried?  Henry  is  always 
worried  about  everything,  and  what  does  he  gain  by 
it?  He  always  looks  hot,  that's  all.  It  was  a  great 
mistake  to  let  Tristram  moon  about  at  home  all  this 
time;  still,  he's  got  to  get  his  education  somehow, 
and  perhaps  it's  better  he  should  get  this  part  of  it 
under  our  eyes." 

"But  Muriel?"  cried  Mrs.  Hudson. 
81 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

Mrs.  Cumbers  looked  at  her  watch  and  rose  to  go. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  "we  have  always  thought 
Muriel  a  very  sensible  girl.  She  knows  the  woman 
and  we  do  not.  For  all  we  know  she  may  not  be  a 
monster  at  all." 

By  which  it  can  be  seen  that,  besides  possessing  a 
charitable  heart,  Mary  Cumbers  had  a  very  sound 
faculty  for  keeping  her  head  in  disaster.  On  her  re- 
turn home  Henry  had  worked  himself  into  a  frenzy, 
having  accidentally  lighted  upon  one  of  Tristram's 
numerous  odes  and  rondels. 

"Look  at  this,"  he  shouted,  waving  the  poor  little 
piece  of  paper.  "Would  you  believe  our  son  capable 
of  stuff  like  this?" 

Mary  read  the  verses  through  without  a  smile. 

"You'll  let  me  put  them  on  the  fire,  won't  you, 
Henry?"  she  said. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  her  husband.  "I  am  going 
to  take  them  to  Tristram  and  demand  an  explana- 
tion." 

"But  we  know  the  explanation,  don't  we?"  she  said 
softly.  "Don't  you  think  it  would  be  more  honour- 
able to  put  them  on  the  fire?" 

"Honourable!  Honourable!"  cried  Henry.  "Are 
you  teaching  me  what  is  honourable  when  it's  per- 
fectly well  known  that  no  woman  has  a  sense  of 
honour?" 

The  eyes  of  Mary  Cumbers  lit  up  curiously. 
"Shall  I  show  him,  then,  the  verses  you  wrote  to  me, 
Henry,  twenty-five  years  ago?"  she  asked. 

82 


IRIS  SITS  ON  A  THRONE 

After  which  there  was  a  silence,  and  Henry  put 
the  ode  on  the  fire. 

That  evening  Mary  was  saying,  "Yes,  dear,"  in 
answer  to  his  rhodomontades  as  meekly  as  ever.  It 
was  never  her  habit  to  remind  him  of  the  occasions 
on  which  she  had  had  her  way. 

When  Mr.  Cumbers  heard  of  the  proposed  party, 
which  he  did,  not  very  long  after  these  events,  for 
Muriel  told  her  mother,  and  Mrs.  Hudson  told 
Mary,  he,  of  course,  took  a  violent  view  of  the  affair. 

"What!"  he  shouted.  "Accept  an  invitation  to 
that  woman's  house?  What  can  you  be  thinking 
of?" 

"We  haven't  been  asked  yet,"  replied  Mary 
meekly.  "But  if  we  are,  the  position  will  be  ex- 
tremely awkward  if  we  don't  go.  Muriel  is  a  joint 
hostess,  you  see." 

"If  that  girl  chooses  to  lose  her  head,"  said  Henry 
firmly,  "and  make  friends  with  an  abandoned  char- 
acter, are  we  all  to  be  mixed  up  in  her  folly?  Go  to 
that  woman?  I  won't  even  have  the  idea  mentioned 
in  my  house." 

So  it  was  not  mentioned,  and  Mr.  Cumbers  be- 
came composed  once  more.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  who  are  generally  completely  happy  so  long  as 
things  are  not  mentioned.  It  is  a  comfortable  but 
unproductive  method  of  scrambling  through  life. 

As  for  Tristram,  when  in  due  course  the  news 
filtered  through  to  him,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
pathetically  (he  had  seen  an  actor  make  this  gesture 

83 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

of  compliance  with  fate)  and  murmured,  "How 
could  I  go?  I  love  her  and  I  am  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried."  But,  happening  to  read  Byron  as  he  went  to 
bed  that  night,  I  will  not  swear  that  for  a  time  at 
any  rate  he  did  not  cherish  wild  schemes  of  leaping 
over  the  box-hedge  (though,  to  be  sure,  it  was  most 
unromantically  undergrown),  and  carrying  off  his 
beloved  from  the  very  middle  of  the  banquet.  At 
any  rate,  he  did  actually  get  out  of  bed  and  go  to  the 
window  to  gaze  upon  the  thin  suburban  trees,  trans- 
formed into  forests  by  the  night,  and  construct  a 
picture  of  desperate  romance  and  adventure.  But  a 
chilly  rain  was  beating  against  the  panes,  and  he 
could  see  nothing,  and  Don  Juan  returned  to  bed  as 
Tristram  Cumbers  once  more.  Sic  transit  gloria 
mundi,  and  thus  does  the  weather  make  fools  of  us 
all.  What  if  it  had  been  raining  hard  on  that  night 
when  Romeo  went  billing  and  cooing  to  Juliet  under 
the  veranda  ?  It  might  have  averted  a  tragedy,  for 
all  you  know,  and  she  might  have  married  some 
wealthy  old  tradesman  of  Verona  and  lived  happily 
ever  after.  But  it  was  a  nice  warm  night  and  the 
moon  was  out,  so  they  both  died  prematurely  in  a 
most  distressing  manner.  These  tricks  of  fate  make 
man  feel  most  infernally  small  and  unimportant.  Let 
us  leave  off  speculating  on  the  subject. 

In  due  course  the  Reverend  John  received  an  in- 
vitation to  the  party,  signed  by  both  Muriel  and  Iris. 
He  laughed  so  loud  that  his  housekeeper,  a  worthy 

84 


IRIS  SITS  ON  A  THRONE 

old  soul  with  a  passion  for  cemeteries,  ran  up  to  see 
what  was  the  matter. 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Jallop,"  he  said,  "I  have  just  seen  a 
joke." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,"  retorted  the  old  woman 
severely.     "I  thought  you  was  ill."     In  her  view  a 
clergyman  had  no  business  to  see  a  joke.    The  only 
reason  why  she  stayed  with  the  Reverend  John  was 
because  she  regarded  herself  more  as  his  keeper  than 
his  housekeeper.    Had  it  not  been  for  this  charitable 
idea  she  would  have  left  long  ago  for  a  more  re- 
spectable position.     To  the  clergyman  the  exquisite 
humour  of  the  tangle  appealed  immensely.    He  im- 
mediately  recognised  the   diplomacy  of   Iris,    and 
(with  such  Machiavelian  foresight  did  he  credit  her) 
he  even  wondered  whether  this  was  not  the  ultimate 
end  for  which  the  Russian  had  been  to  such  pains 
to  make  a  friend  of  Muriel.     Of  course  he  could 
plead  a  prior  engagement  if  he  so  wished :  a  clergy- 
man always  has  a  prior  engagement.     But,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,   apart  from   any  rudeness  to 
Muriel,  the  Reverend  John  wanted  very  much  to  go 
to  the  party.    Needless  to  say,  when  he  accepted  the 
invitation,  which  he  did,  in  his  usual  unconventional 
way,  by  shouting  "Yes"  to  Muriel  over  the  garden 
wall,  he  did  not  tell  her  anything  of  his  suspicion  that 
she  was  being  used  as  the  bait  with  which  the  Russian 
wished  to  catch  her  fish.    But,  meeting  Iris  herself  a 
day  or  two  later,  he  greeted  her  with  an  ironical 
bow. 

85 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  am  coming  to  your  party." 

"You  are  not  afraid  of  your  neighbours?"  she 
answered,  teasing  him. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  replied  the  old  gentleman, 
"that  I  am  afraid  of  anything.  Apart  from  that, 
your  pretensions  to  upsetting  my  parish  are  really 
too  ridiculous.  I  wonder  you  are  not  afraid  of  peo- 
ple laughing  at  you." 

"One  should  never  be  afraid  of  that,"  she  said 
with  mock  gravity.  "I  have  heard  a  clergyman 
preach  on  the  text." 

"Pooh !"  retorted  the  Reverend  John,  sawing  the 
air  with  his  stick.  "It  won't  do — it  won't  do !  You 
are  too  clever  and  not  clever  enough ;  learn  to  be  wise 
instead.  Learn  to  look  life  in  the  face.  It's  not  an 
ill-favoured  face,  really.  To  see  Life  whole  is  to  see 
it  gently  and  compassionately.  Henry  Cumbers  is 
not  altogether  a  fool,  and  you  are  not  altogether  a 
genius.  The  keystone  of  a  bridge  is  not  the  only 
brick  that's  doing  its  duty." 

She  laughed  merrily. 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  she  cried.  "What  a  string 
of  platitudes!" 

"Very  well,  have  it  your  own  way.  There  was 
once  a  man  who  bought  an  epigram  at  the  price  of 
his  peace  of  mind,  and  they  called  him  a  genius;  and 
there  was  another  who  married  a  wife  and  had  chil- 
dren and  a  farm  in  the  country,  and  they  called  him 
— what  do  you  think?" 

86 


IRIS  SITS  ON  A  THRONE 

"Oh,  'happy,'  I  suppose — that's  the  proper 
philosophical  turn  to  the  sentence,  isn't  it?" 

"No.  They  didn't  call  him  anything.  They  for- 
got he  existed  at  all." 

"Then  what's  the  point  of  the  story?" 

"Nothing.  Just  that  he  was  there  all  the  time. 
That's  all." 

"Oh!"  she  said.  "Is  that  all?  But  of  course 
there  are  any  amount  of  people  like  that.  Person- 
ally I  would  rather  be  anything  than  unnoticed." 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"Your  party,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  bizarre,  I  sup- 
pose .  .  .  odd?" 

She  did  not  answer  this  question. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  queried,  "that  Tristram  will 
come?" 

"Hardly,"  said  the  Reverend  John.  "You  can- 
not expect  people  to  make  themselves  ridiculous 
merely  in  order  to  give  you  the  best  part  in  a 
comedietta." 

"Yes,"  she  answered.    "I  rather  see  myself  .  .  ." 

That  was  all  that  passed  between  them.  Iris  was 
always  perfectly  frank  with  the  clergyman.  She 
knew,  by  instinct,  that  this  was  the  only  way  to  re- 
tain his  friendship,  a  friendship  which,  strangely 
enough,  she  was  already  beginning  to  value.  So  the 
word  went  round  that  the  Vicar  was  going  to  the 
party,  and  many  acceptances  began  to  be  left  at 
Dangerfield  as  a  result.  Muriel  was  as  happy  as 
she  could  be.  She  ignored  altogether  the  comments 

87 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

upon  her  friendship  with  Iris,  and  upon  the  situation 
with  Tristram.  Indeed,  so  blindly  infatuated  was 
she  with  her  new  friend  that  she  imagined  that  all 
these  comments  arose  from  jealousy  of  the  favours 
shown  her  by  the  Russian.  Having  become  a  victim 
of  that  curiously  compelling  charm  which  Iris  un- 
doubtedly possessed,  she  could  not  imagine  anyone 
not  wanting  to  be  a  victim  also.  Meanwhile,  in 
justice  to  Muriel,  it  should  be  said  that  she  remained 
fond  of  and  loyal  to  Tristram  in  spite  of  the  abnor- 
mal position  in  which  that  young  lover  found  him- 
self. When  she  saw  him  she  behaved  perfectly 
naturally  towards  him,  as  if  they  were  still  engaged 
(as  indeed  technically  they  were),  and  as  if  no  un- 
fortunate "passion"  had  come  to  spoil  the  even  tenor 
of  the  way  to  marriage.  She  regarded  Tristram's  at- 
tacks, quite  sensibly,  as  a  disease  of  childhood  which 
would  run  its  natural  course  and  subside.  Mean- 
while she  could  not  see,  because  Tristram  was  ill, 
why  she  should  not  recognise  the  good  points  in  the 
bacillus  which  was  causing  his  fever.  As  for  the 
boy,  he  would  have  given  anything  to  understand  the 
bond  between  his  inamorata  and  his  fiancee.  But 
he  could  not,  like  Clodius,  penetrate  their  mysteries 
in  disguise,  and  when  he  had  asked  Muriel  why  she 
was  so  fond  of  the  one  woman  she  ought  to  hate,  the 
girl  had  only  laughed  and  said  she  was  a  very  in- 
teresting person  even  apart  from  the  fact  that 
Tristram  was  in  love  with  her.  So  Tristram  re- 
mained in  the  dark  and  miserable.  What  he  should 

88 


IRIS  SITS  ON  A  THRONE 

have  done,  of  course,  was  to  treat  Muriel  as  suffer- 
ing from  a  childish  disease  as  well.  But  this,  natural- 
ly,  never  entered  his  head. 

Meanwhile,  the  party  was  a  complete  and  brilliant 
success.    Although  by  no  means  an  expensive  affair, 
the  whimsical  mind  of  the  Russian  had  so  devised 
things  that^  everyone  felt  they  were  being  present  at 
an   entertainment  of  immense   opulence   and  good 
taste.  Iris  herself,  wonderfully  gowned  and  brilliant- 
ly talkataive,  veritably  sat  upon  a  throne.    In  a  very 
few  hours  her  party  had  become  a  salon  in  embryo. 
It  was  generally  felt  that  Cumbers  had  made  a  fool 
of  himself.  ".  .  .  narrow-minded,  you  know."  "No 
wonder  the  boy  fell  in  love  with  her.    What  on  earth 
did  the  man  expect!"— and  so  on  and  so  forth.     In 
fact,  by  the  end  of  the  evening  the  position  of  Iris 
was  assured.     She  talked  wittily    (and  sometimes 
wickedly)  to  the  men,  treated  the  daughters  as  her 
peers,  and  gave  a  most  excellent  imitation  of  girlish 
and  innocent  charm  before  the  mothers.     Many  of 
the  latter  went  away  quite  unreasonably  dissatisfied 
with  their  own  children.    The  cosmopolitan  had  be- 
come the  fashion.     Tristram  watched  this  triumph 
from^his  bedroom  window,  his  mind  seething  and 
bubbling  like  a  stockpot  on  the  fire.     Like  all  young 
lovers,  whose  passion  is  not  requited,  he  would  rather 
have  seen  his  mistress  in  profundis  than  in  excelsis. 
We  like  to  pity  and  help  on  these  occasions,  not  to 
admire  and  envy.     Throughout  the  party  Iris  was 
alive  to  the  meaning  of  that  little  light  on  an  up- 

89 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

stairs  floor  across  the  box  hedge,  and,  wicked  girl, 
rejoiced  in  the  piquancy  of  it. 

The  Vicar  was  one  of  the  last  to  leave. 

"Well,"  said  Iris,  as  she  took  his  hand,  "have  I 
succeeded?" 

"You  have  dazzled,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "a 
few  people  whom  in  your  heart  you  are  calling  com- 
monplace. Is  that  a  success?  I  suppose  so.  It  is  all 
that  most  successful  people  have  succeeded  in  doing, 
after  all." 

"Ungrateful  man!"  she  laughed.  "I  give  you  a 
good  supper  and  you  preach  me  a  sermon." 

He  laughed  as  another  guest  came  to  take  his 
leave. 

"Hallo,  Madders,"  he  said.  "It's  been  a  delight- 
ful evening,  hasn't  it?" 

"Simply  splendid,"  answered  the  other.  "By  the 
way,  Madame  Iranovna,  did  you  see  the  trouble 
that's  brewing  in  the  Balkans?" 

"Ohl"  she  replied.  "Assassinations  and  things? 
But  murder  there  is  merely  an  expression  of  opinion. 
It's  their  idea  of  Liberty." 

The  man  laughed  and  took  his  leave. 

"Clever  woman,  isn't  she?"  he  said  to  the  Rev- 
erend John  as  they  walked  along  the  road  together. 

"Very  clever,"  assented  the  clergyman;  "very 
clever  indeed " 

Their  paths  diverged  at  the  end  of  the  road,  and 
they  said  good  night. 

"But  that  affair  in — where  is  it? — Bosnia — Ser- 
90 


IRIS  SITS  ON  A  THRONE 

via?"  said  the  old  gentleman,  as  if  pursuing  a  train 
of  thought,  "that  might  lead  to — to  quite  a  lot  of 
things."  He  stared  up  into  the  sphinx-like  summer 
sky.  "It  might  quite  alter  our  lives,"  he  said  almost 
to  himself. 

"How?"  queried  the  other  sharply. 

"What  about  a  European  war?"  said  the  Rev- 
erend John. 

"Oh,  rubbish !  Heslop,"  laughed  his  companion. 
"Besides,  even  so  ...  it  wouldn't  be  anything  to 
do  with  us " 

"Good  night,  Madders,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
abruptly. 

The  other  left  him,  and  the  clergyman  remained 
for  a  few  moments  looking  into  the  sky. 

"One,  two — three,  four — five,  six,  seven,"  he  said 
to  himself  .  .  .  "and  millions  more,  and  then  multi- 
ply, and  then  .  .  ." 

He  was  counting  the  stars.  "And  over  the  figure 
of  a  corpse  in  Servia,"  he  murmured,  "there  might 

arise  a  conflict  more  terrible  than "  He  shivered 

a  little,  but  did  not  move. 

"I  never  did  believe  in  civilisation,"  he  said.  Then 
he  walked  home.  But  on  his  doorstep  he  stopped 
again.  He  looked  up  at  the  sky  once  more — inter- 
minably serene,  comforting  in  its  infinity.  .  .  .  The 
contemplation  of  it  seemed  to  give  him  satisfaction. 

"Impossible,"  muttered  the  Reverend  John  as  he 
slipped  the  key  into  the  lock. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SOME  LETTERS  AND  A  THUNDERBOLT 

"CLEVER  people,"  said  Mary  Cumbers,  as  she 
snipped  off  some  roses  for  the  drawing-room,  "al- 
ways make  me  think  that  I  don't  think  what  I  do 
think  .  .  .  when  I  do  think  it  all  the  time,"  she 
added  pathetically,  sucking  a  pricked  thumb. 

"Personally,"  said  Mrs.  Hudson,  "I  make  a  point 
of  never  listening  to  them.  Of  course,  Muriel  wor- 
ships brains." 

Her  companion  breathed  heavily.  Mary  always 
did  this  when  she  was  thinking  deeply. 

"It  all  puzzles  me  so,"  she  said  at  last.  "As  far 
as  the  really  big  things  of  life  are  concerned — I  mean 
things  like  sorrow  and  pain  and  joy — it  doesn't 
really  matter  whether  one  is  clever  or  stupid,  does 
it?  I  think  cleverness  only  matters  in  unimportant 
things." 

"It  certainly  seems  ridiculous  that  Shakespeare 
might  have  been  run  over  by  a  coach,"  said  the  other, 
"or  didn't  they  have  coaches  then?"  she  added 
vaguely. 

Mary  gathered  her  roses  together  and  held  them 
to  her  face. 

92 


LETTERS  AND  A  THUNDERBOLT 

"The  roses,"  she  murmured,  "smelt  the  same  to 
Shakespeare,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Hudson  sighed. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "you  and  I  are  in  the  minority 
as  far  as  the  Russian  woman  is  concerned.  She  has 
become  quite  the  fashion." 

Mary  smiled  at  her  flowers. 

"It's  rather  annoying  for  Tristram,"  she  said  at 
last — and  suddenly  broke  off.  Tristram  was  coming 
out  of  the  house.  "Henry  will  never  see,"  Mary 
added  in  a  whisper,  "that  one  cannot  possibly  help 
falling  in  love." 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  the  boy  to  Mrs.  Hudson. 
"Did  Muriel  come  with  you?" 

"She  is  supposed  to  be  calling  for  me,"  replied 
the  other.  It  was  understood  that  Muriel  came  to 
the  house  now  only  when  Mr.  Cumbers  was  at  the 
office.  Henry  knew  this,  but  it  never  crossed  his 
mind  that  his  dignity  was  hardly  enhanced  by  the 
arrangement.  He  did  not  like  the  subject  of  Iris 
obtruded  on  his  notice.  The  sight  of  Muriel  re- 
minded him  of  it;  therefore  he  took  the  obvious  pre- 
caution of  keeping  the  girl  out  of  his  sight.  As  for 
her  position  with  Tristram,  he  hardly  knew  what 
line  to  take.  He  imagined  the  boy  would  recover 
from  his  infatuation,  and  hoped  that  Muriel  would 
do  the  same.  Henry  was  one  of  those  men  who  are 
always  passionately  in  love  with  the  status  quo. 

When  Muriel  arrived  a  little  later  on  she  saw 
93 


Tristram  in  the  garden,  and  came  out  to  him.     He 
regarded  her  moodily. 

"Muriel,"  he  said,  "this  cannot  go  on." 

"Are  you  still  very  much  in  love?"  asked  the 
girl. 

"It  isn't  that  only,"  replied  Tristram.  "It  is  such 
a  difficult  thing  to  say  to  you."  He  dug  the  gravel 
path  with  his  heel.  "You  see,"  he  went  on,  "it  shows 
...  it  shows  I  can't  really  have  loved  you  .  .  . 
not  as  a  man  ought  to  love  the  girl  who  is  going  to 
be  his  wife." 

Muriel  looked  across  at  the  Russian's  house. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "you  aren't  the  only  one — since 
the  party  half  the  men  in  the  parish  are  in  love  with 
Iris."  But  she  saw  that  he  was  serious  and  troubled, 
and  abandoned  her  bantering  tone. 

"Listen,  Tristram,"  she  said.  "If  you  really  want 
to  break  off  the  engagement,  of  course  I  will  let  you. 
But  I  love  you  quite  as  much  as  I  ever  did  .  .  . 
which  is  a  lot.  I  love  you  .  .  .  sort  of  quietly  .  .  . 
knowing  how  silly  you  are  sometimes.  I  think  some 
people  are  made  to  love  like  that,  and  some  people 
are  made  to  adore  and  worship  and  feel  ill  about  it. 
I  think  you  are  mistaking  yourself  for  one  of  that 
sort;  really  you  are  one  of  the  quiet  sort,  you 
know." 

"No,"  said  the  boy  gloomily.  "I'm  passionate 
.  .  .  horribly  passionate."  He  crushed  a  flower  in 
his  hand  and  laughed  nervously.  "One  wears  a 
mask,  you  know,"  he  said. 

94 


LETTERS  AND  A  THUNDERBOLT 

"Oh,  no,"  she  returned,  "one  doesn't;  one  likes  to 
think  one  does,  but  one  doesn't.  Have  you  ever 
thought  what  a  fearful  strain  it  would  be  wearing  a 
mask  all  one's  life  ?  One  wouldn't  have  time  to  think 
about  anything  else."  She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
"I  don't  want  you  to  make  a  mistake,  Tristram,"  she 
said.  "She's  not  our  kind — she'll  go — and  just  be 
like  a  story  we've  read." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  he  was  puzzled. 

"If  you're  content "  he  began,  then  broke  off. 

"Why  are  you  so  fond  of  her?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

Muriel  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  shiver. 

"Tristram,"  she  said,  "I— I  don't  know!" 

He  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"She  has  a  beautiful  voice,"  went  on  the  girl 
dreamily,  "and  she  tells  stories  .  .  .  and  she  has 
wicked  eyes  .  .  .  that  somehow  laugh  at  their  own 
wickedness  and  turn  it  into  beauty."  She  seemed 
to  be  explaining  things  to  herself,  for  she  went  on 
talking  quite  heedless  of  the  boy  at  her  side.  "She's 
all  slinky  when  she  sits  down,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
know  what  it  is  ...  I  dream  about  her  .  .  .  she 
seems  to  know  everything.  ...  I  suppose  it's  just 
because  she's  clever  and  brilliant  .  .  .  and  all  that. 

But  when  she  looks  at  you "  She  broke  off.  "I'd 

like  her  to  have  been  a  mistress  when  I  was  at 
school,"  she  said. 

Tristram  stared  at  her.  He  had  never  known 
Muriel  in  this  mood  before. 

Suddenly  she  gripped  his  arm. 

95 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said,  "that  Iris  has  never  kissed 
you."  Then  she  sighed.  "It  was  a  wonderful  party," 
she  added  suddenly. 

"Everybody's  talking  about  it,"  answered 
Tristram;  and  they  both  became  commonplace.  But 
somehow  the  little  conversation  had  made  the  boy 
feel  a  little  more  drawn  to  Muriel.  Quite  vaguely, 
he  felt  that  she  was  weak  and  that  he  ought  to  be 
strong. 

Meanwhile,  Iris,  who  never  knew  the  harm  or  the 
good  that  she  was  doing,  and  was  quite  unconscious 
of  the  depths  which  were  beginning  to  stir  in  the 
boy  and  girl  whose  lives  she  had  so  calmly  ploughed 
up  with  her  personality,  was  reading  a  letter  from 
Andrea. 

"I  am  only  living,"  he  wrote,  "for  the  day  when 
you  join  me  here.  Everybody  seems  so  dull.  I  think 
you  spoil  one  for  everyday  affairs.  But  I  am  un- 
reasonably thankful  for  being  spoilt.  Aren't  you 
tired  of  Suburbia?  But  I  expect  by  now  you  have, 
as  usual,  made  a  kingdom  for  yourself.  Come  to  me 
as  soon  as  you  can.  Russian  politics  are  veering  to- 
wards strange  things;  but,  of  course,  this  sort  of 
thing  never  interests  you.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
talk  about  some  mess-up  in  Servia.  You've  got  it 
in  your  papers,  I  expect.  Of  course,  a  European 
war  is  unthinkable.  I  really  believe  civilisation  has 
gone  beyond  that  kind  of  folly.  .  .  .  Only  think  1 
If  it  happened  (sounds  like  a  fairy-tale),  I'd  have 

96 


LETTERS  AND  A  THUNDERBOLT 

to  rejoin  my  regiment  and  be  a  soldier!  Good-bye, 
my  darling  girl.  Don't  make  me  wait  too  long." 

And  on  the  heels  of  this  letter  came  the  Reverend 
John,  with  a  grave  face  and  the  news  that  Russia 
was  going  to  war. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  "your  country 
is  going  to  war.  I  was  afraid  of  it.  In  England  we 
never  believe  in  the  worst;  but  it  is  coming.  .  .  ." 

"But,"  said  Iris,  "it's  nothing  to  do  with  Eng- 
land." 

The  old  man  smiled  sadly.  "We  are  a  great  Em- 
pire,"  he  said.  "Our  inheritance  is  a  mighty  one 
.  .  .  and  our  responsibilities  are  mighty  too.  For 
the  British  Empire  there  is  practically  no  war  that 
is  not  its  business.  It  is  the  responsibility  and  the 
privilege  of  great  possessions  and  great  ideals.  I 
only  hope  the  nossessions  have  not  grown  greater 
than  the  ideals!" 

She  hardly  listened  to  him.  The  possibility> 
casually  mentioned  in  Andrea's  letter,  and  which  was. 
now  an  accomplished  fact,  still  seemed  far  enough 
away  to  appear  unreal.  But  when  the  old  gentle- 
man had  gone,  and  she  was  left  alone,  the  realisation 
of  the  catastrophe  and  all  that  it  might  mean  to  her 
began  to  steal  into  her  brain  as  the  tide  creeps  up 
the  sands.  She  felt  no  thrill  of  patriotic  emotion. 
How  should  she,  who  owned  no  fatherland  and  could 
remember  no  home?  To  her  the  whole  quarrel  ap- 
peared ridiculous  and  meaningless.  Was  it  possible, 
she  thought,  that  men  could  kill  each  other  over  such 

97 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

a  thing?  A  dispute  in  which  no  single  one  of  them 
could  have  the  least  interest?  For  some  time  Iris 
was  genuinely  stirred  with  indignation  and  alarm. 
She  sat  down  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Andrea, 
some  of  which  is  worth  quoting  as  showing  her  point 
of  view  at  this  period. 

"But,  Andrea,"  she  wrote,  "why  should  you  go? 
What  has  this  kind  of  trouble  to  do  with  you  or, 
through  you,  with  me  ?  What  do  we  care  how  many 
people  get  murdered  in  Servia  or  whose  may  be  the 
intriguing  behind  it  all?  It  isn't  reasonable.  If  I 
don't  like  the  climate  of  a  country,  I  leave  it.  It 
seems  to  me  that  is  just  what  has  happened  here.  I 
do  not  like  to  think  of  you  suffering  hardships  and 
campaigning.  If  people  want  to  fight,  let  those  who 
made  the  quarrel  go  and  do  it,  and  anybody  else  who 
enjoys  that  sort  of  thing  can  join  in.  Tell  me  you 
are  coming  back  to  England,  as  it  is  no  longer  pos- 
sible for  me  to  join  you  in  Russia." 

When  she  received  his  reply  she  bit  her  lip  and 
thrust  the  letter  quickly  away  amongst  the  others. 

"You  do  not  understand,"  he  replied,  "and  there 
is  no  reason  why  you  should.  My  country's  quarrel 
is  naturally  my  own.  But,  my  darling  girl,  you 
now  reap  the  benefit  of  that  hazardous  parentage 
you  are  so  proud  of  I  You  have  no  need  to  take  sides 
at  all.  As  for  me,  don't  worry.  The  war  won't 
last  long,  and  I  shall  be  all  right.  This  is  the  last 
letter  you  will  get  from  me  from  Petersburg,  as 
I'm  on  the  move  with  my  guns  directly.  I'm  not  sure, 


LETTERS  AND  A  THUNDERBOLT 

my  dear  little  firework,  that  you  wouldn't  rather  like 
me  in  uniform!  Keep  well,  dear — and,  above  all, 
keep  happy.  .  .  ." 

The  receipt  of  this  letter,  as  has  been  said,  caused 
Iris  to  bite  her  lip  in  anger.  So  he  had  swept  aside 
in  a  sentence  the  argument  which  she  had  thought  so 
sensible.  "My  country's  quarrel  is  naturally  my 
own,"  and  she  wouldn't  understand!  But  she  was 
a  dear  little  firework,  who  would  rather  admire  his 
uniform !  If  Andrea,  poor  man,  had  wanted  to  anger 
her,  he  could  scarcely  have  found  a  better  way  of 
doing  so,  when  she  was  so  fondly  imagining  that 
she  was  looking  the  disaster  full  in  the  face  and  deal- 
ing with  it  as  logically  and  reasonably  as  any  lawyer! 
So  she  didn't  understand!  And,  truth  to  tell,  half 
her  rage  was  with  herself,  because  she  knew  this  to 
be  true,  and  that  in  actual  fact  she  didn't  understand 
in  the  least. 

Thunderbolt  fell  on  thunderbolt,  and  in  a  few 
days  it  seemed  as  if  the  four  corners  of  the  world 
were  in  arms.  Nothing  serves  so  well  to  show  the 
involuntary  brotherhood  of  man  as  when  men  fall 
out.  The  hive  is  astir,  and  not  one  of  the  bees  re- 
mains untouched.  On  a  certain  night  a  cockney 
crowd  turned  up  pale  faces  under  the  lamps  of  Buck- 
ingham Palace  and  roared  and  cheered  until  a  man 
appeared  upon  the  balcony  in  evening  dress.  The 
tocsin  had  sounded — the  hunt  was  up.  In  great  cities, 
in  smoky  rowns,  in  sleepy  hamlets  or  where  solitary 
homes  brave  with  their  lighted  windows  the  pitiless 

99 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

moors  or  nestle  warmly  among  the  tr/ecs  of  silent 
valleys,  folk  slept  that  night  to  wake  upon  a  morning 
in  a  new  England.  An  England  where,  perhaps  for 
the  first  time,  men  took  thought  and  blessed  the  sea 
— where  fools  shouted  lustily  and  drank  damnation 
to  their  new-born  enemy,  while  wise  men  sat,  late 
at  night,  staring  from  their  windows  into  the  sky, 
groaning  for  the  future;  men  who  could  find  no 
cause  for  elation  in  war,  yet  were  in  some  sort  proud 
that  it  was  falling  to  them  to  defend  their  country's 
credit. 

And  our  little  suburb  woke  upon  that  morning  with 
the  others,  and  stared  whitefaced  upon  its  morning 
papers ;  and  men  were  late  in  going  to  the  City,  and 
total  strangers  talked  to  one  another  in  the  train — 
and  there  were  signs  and  portents.  So  that  fat  and 
middle-aged  fathers  of  families  looked  lovingly  at 
their  little  front  doors,  and  in  their  minds'  eye  saw 
themselves  defending  them  desperately  with  the  old 
revolver  that  had  lain  by  the  bedside  ever  since  the 
burglary  up  the  street  in  ...  what  year  was  it? 
Good  gracious,  how  time  flies  I  But  one  does  not 
feel  as  old  as  one  looks,  and  the  exerciser  is  still 
screwed  to  the  bathroom  door,  and  hadn't  one  al- 
ways meant  to  take  it  up  again,  anyway? 


100 


CHAPTER  IX 

KNITTING  AND  EMBROIDERY 

HENRY  CUMBERS  took  the  coming  of  war  as  pomp- 
ously as  he  took  everything  else.  He  read  the  paper 
to  his  wife,  and  explained  everything  to  her  from  the 
depths  of  his  entire  ignorance  of  the  situation. 

Mary  gaped  stupidly. 

"But,  Henry,"  she  said,  "everybody  fighting!  It 
makes  the  world  look  so  silly!" 

"Nothing,"  said  her  husband,  astraddle  on  the 
hearthrug,  "nothing  can  make  civilisation  look  silly." 

Like  many  a  better  man  than  himself,  the  begin- 
ning of  war  found  him  shocked,  but  not  personally 
shocked.  He  considered  it  would  be  a  matter  of 
weeks,  at  the  most  months.  He  had  a  belief  in  the 
British  Empire  which  was  every  whit  as  strong  as  his 
belief  in  the  Church  of  England.  Only,  as  it  had  not 
had  any  dogma  or  ceremony  attached  to  it  by  an 
improvident  nation,  and  as  each  Sunday  is  allowed 
to  pass  without  any  more  definite  reference  to  it  than 
a  prayer  for  the  Royal  Family,  Henry  had  never  dis- 
covered that  the  Creed  was  there  all  the  time.  Now, 
as  he  put  it,  with  a  wave  of  the  arm,  "Prussianism  be- 
ing at  our  very  gates,"  England  had  become  suddenly 

101 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

a  larger  idea  than  a  network  of  railway  lines.  The 
phraseology  would  shock  Henry  a  great  deal,  but  it 
is  true  nevertheless  that  from  this  moment  the  altar- 
cloth  of  his  religion  became  the  Union  Jack. 

So  that  Mr.  Cumbers,  though  during  the  follow- 
ing weeks  he  talked  an  amazing  deal  of  rubbish,  won 
the  war  in  a  phrase  and  lost  it  in  a  criticism  (as  who 
has  not  heard  Pendleton  at  the  club,  and  Sir  Fred- 
erick, who  retired  from  the  Civil  Service  in  '93,  and 
the  man  at  the  chemist's  in  the  High  Street,  and  even 
— must  it  be  said? — you  and  I,  ourselves)  ;  yet,  for 
all  that,  his  obstinate  and  truculent  belief  in  his  own 
people,  his  utterly  groundless  conviction  that  he  and 
his  kind  were  the  salt  of  the  earth,  radiated  and  dis- 
seminated with  the  conviction  of  thousands  of  his 
peers,  and  built  that  solid  wall  of  idealism  which 
culminated  in  a  nation  at  arms  and  an  effort  of  Em- 
pire which  put  the  Elizabethan  adventurers  in  the 
shade. 

It  is  very  easy  to  call  a  man  a  fool,  it  is  very  pleas- 
ant to  cull  a  laugh  from  his  foibles  and  his  simplici- 
ties ;  but  it  is  very  difficult  to  measure  him  in  his  re- 
lation to  and  his  influence  on  his  generation.  In  a 
great  crisis  the  wise  man  and  the  fool  join  hands,  for 
both  are  capable  of  a  single  aim :  it  is  the  clever  man 
who,  brilliant  and  unstable,  sometimes  becomes  lost 
in  the  quicksands  of  doubt  and  unbelief.  If  war 
teaches  nothing  else,  it  teaches  us  to  value  our 
mediocrities. 

After  the  first  few  weeks  of  turmoil  and  confusion, 
102 


KNITTING  AND  EMBROIDERY 

when  people  found  that  the  end  of  the  world  had 
not  arrived  after  all  and  that  the  affairs  of  every- 
day existence  seemed  to  go  on  more  or  less  normally, 
they  began  to  take  up  their  personal  interests  where 
they  had  left  them.  Thus  Henry  still  cut  Iris  over 
the  box  hedge  and  vetoed  the  subject  of  the  lady  in 
his  house;  and  Tristram  still  wrote  odes  and  ac- 
counted himself  the  unhappiest  of  mortals,  and, 
mirabile  dictu,  he  actually  discussed  his  case  with 
Muriel,  who  sympathised  with  him  quite  as  often  as 
she  laughed  at  him. 

Iris  herself  resented  bitterly  the  trick  of  fate  which 
had  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  leave  her  self- 
imposed  quarantine.  She  said  as  much  to  the  Rev. 
erend  John,  whose  valuable  time  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  borrowing  over  her  garden  gate. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  the  old  gentleman  replied, 
"you  might  just  as  well  complain  if  the  world  ceased 
to  revolve  and  we  all  flew  off  into  space  at  a  tangent." 

"But  this  war  could  have  been  prevented,"  she 
argued. 

The  Reverend  John  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Civilisation,"  he  said,  "is  an  affair  of  individuals; 
in  the  mass  it  does  not  exist." 

But,  not  possessing  the  broad  philosophy  of  the 
clergyman,  Iris  continued  to  apply  reason  to  an  un- 
reasonable affair,  and,  truth  to  tell,  to  look  upon  the 
whole  disaster  from  a  purely  personal  point  of  view. 
Muriel  ran  in  one  afternoon  in  a  hurry.  It  ap- 
peared that  a  large  amount  of  knitting  was  required, 

103 


and  a  club  was  being  formed  amongst  the  ladies  of 
the  place.  Perhaps  Iris  would  like  to  join? 

"I  can't  knit,"  she  said. 

It  was  the  first  time  Muriel  had  heard  her  confess 
an  inability  to  do  anything. 

"But  I  can  embroider,"  she  added,  and  picked  up 
a  piece  of  gold  embroidery  on  a  cushion.  "I  did 
this,"  she  said. 

"It  is  very  beautiful,"  answered  Muriel.  "It 
wouldn't  take  you  long  to  learn  to  knit." 

But  somehow  the  prospect  of  sitting  at  the  feet 
of  the  local  ladies  for  whom  she  had  such  a  great 
contempt  did  not  appeal  to  the  Russian.  She  must 
have  a  star  part  in  life,  or  none.  So  an  excuse  was 
made  to  Muriel,  and  Iris  did  not  become  a  member 
of  the  knitting  society.  The  little  incident  annoyed 
her,  and  she  reduced  Tristram  to  a  state  of  emotional 
jellydom  that  evening  over  the  hedge  in  order  to 
restore  her  self-respect.  For  the  first  time  since  his 
departure  she  began  to  feel  the  need  of  Andrea.  He 
never  failed  to  make  her  feel  brilliant  and  of  im- 
portance. The  little  world  in  which  she  found  her- 
self seemed  somehow  to  have  grown  closer  together, 
to  have  become  more  of  a  family  whose  acquaintance- 
ship she  might  have,  but  whose  privacy  she  must 
respect. 

For  all  that  it  must  not  be  imagined  that  Iris  sud- 
denly found  herself  isolated.  The  triumph  of  the 
party  was  too  recent  to  be  altogether  forgotten,  and 
Iris  was  still  an  amusement.  The  world  is  like 

104 


KNITTING  AND  EMBROIDERY 

that.  The  most  terrible  disasters  will  happen,  but 
we  must  have  our  eggs  and  bacon  and  our  coffee  at 
breakfast.  Kingdoms  may  reel  and  fall,  but  dinner 
must  be  on  the  table  at  seven-thirty.  Hemispheres 
may  fly  at  each  other's  throats,  but  George  and 
Henry  must  be  at  the  office  in  the  morning;  and  until 
our  habits  are  taken  from  us  by  force  they  stick  to 
us  as  close  as  the  skin  upon  our  bodies. 

It  was  Mr.  Ferdinand  Madders  who  led  the  quite 
respectable  sized  coterie  who  attended  the  salon,  so 
to  speak,  of  the  Russian.  Madders  was,  curiously 
enough,  the  people's  warden  of  the  parish,  and  there- 
fore, technically,  a  colleague  of  Henry  Cumbers.  But 
no  two  men  could  have  been  more  different  in  nature. 
The  people's  warden  was  a  bachelor  of  some  fifty- 
seven  summers:  a  thin,  angular  man  with  an  enor- 
mous Roman  nose  of  which  he  was  inordinately 
proud,  for  the  absurd  reason  that  all  his  family  had 
been  disfigured  in  the  same  way  for  two  hundred 
years.  It  was  his  pose,  not  being  properly  occupied 
with  a  wife  and  children,  to  cultivate  an  atmosphere 
of  having  once  been  a  very  gay  dog  indeed.  Sport- 
ing papers  lay  about  his  house,  and  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  walking  abroad  with  a  wisp  of  straw  between 
his  lips.  But  he  had  never  made  a  bet  in  his  life,  and 
his  banker  could  a  tale  unfold  of  a  very  meagre  and 
even  parsimonious  expenditure.  In  the  matter  of  the 
war  Mr.  Madders  positively  sweated  patriotism.  He 
became  a  member  of  I  don't  know  how  many  com- 
mittees, all  of  which  he  attended  regularly  and  where 

105 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

he  shouted  louder  than  anyone.  Indeed,  he  talked  a 
great  deal  of  obtaining  a  commission  in  the  remount 
department,  but  as  his  sole  qualification  for  this  con- 
sisted in  the  wisp  of  straw,  the  affair  never  arrived 
at  fruition.  He  liked  to  pretend  he  was  intimate 
with  the  fascinating  Russian  and  to  hint  that  fifty- 
seven  was  not  a  great  age,  and  that  once  a  gay  dog 
always  a  gay  dog. 

And,  indeed,  though  she  knew  it  not,  Ferdinand 
Madders  was  extremely  useful  to  Iris  at  this  period. 
Had  it  not  been  for  him  and  his  foibles,  she  would 
have  run  a  very  serious  risk  of  experiencing  that  most 
horrifying  of  suburban  experiences,  the  experience 
of  being  "dropped."  Not  that  anyone  liked  her  less 
or  admired  her  less  than  before,  only  there  were 
many  whose  lives  had  been  very  full  of  doing  noth- 
ing who  now  found  that  they  were  really  quite  use- 
ful folk,  and  whose  minds  had  no  time  for  anything 
so  unimportant  as  a  brilliant  young  woman.  But 
Ferdinand  Madders  kept  alive  the  interest  which  Iris 
had  excited  at  her  party,  and  it  was  some  time  before 
the  conviction  crept  in  upon  her  that  she  was 
marooned.  Of  Muriel,  it  is  true,  she  saw  very  little. 
There  was  nothing  that  Muriel  liked  better  than 
work.  She  revelled  in  appointments,  committees,  and 
"getting  things  done  by  a  certain  time."  Now  she 
found  in  various  directions  that  she  could  have  her 
fill  of  this,  and  her  activities  rather  swamped  her 
mushroom  passion  for  Iris.  She  came  to  tea  oc- 
casionally, and  was  always  glad  to  see  and  to  talk  to 

106 


KNITTING  AND  EMBROIDERY 

the  Russian.  But  the  old  glamour  was  going,  and 
her  own  increased  self-respect  perhaps  made  her  re- 
spect for  the  qualities  of  Iris  rather  less.  To  be- 
come self-important  is  to  become  of  no  importance 
whatever,  but  to  become  important  to  other  people 
is  to  become  important  to  oneself.  And  that  is  half- 
way to  being  successful,  not  in  the  world  perhaps, 
but  in  the  universe,  which,  after  all,  is  everybody's 
real  sphere  of  activity. 

The  Reverend  John,  meanwhile,  went  about 
amongst  his  people  in  a  state  of  Christian  optimism 
from  which  they  derived  a  great  deal  of  benefit,  but 
secretly,  in  the  evenings  at  the  Vicarage,  he  used  to 
read  Cicero's  letters  to  keep  him  sane,  a  consumma- 
tion  which  they  accomplished  very  satisfactorily. 
But  despite  the  manifold  duties  with  which  his  mani- 
fold sympathies  filled  his  life,  he  still  found  time  to 
consider  the  case  6f  Iris,  and  to  meditate  upon  the 
desperate  position  of  a  butterfly  in  a  thunderstorm. 
Thus  we  find  him  the  sole  visitor  at  afternon.  tea 
at  Dangerfield  upon  a  fine  day  at  the  end  of  August, 
He  was  heterodox  enough  to  make  the  list  of  a 
clergyman's  clients  include  publicans,  sinners  and  but- 
terflies, and  it  was  one  of  his  few  faults  that,  because 
so  many  mistaken  people  are  regarded  as  criminals, 
he  was  too  fond  of  considering  criminals  merely  as 
mistaken  persons.  Not  that  he  regarded  Iris  either 
as  criminal  or  mistaken;  he  saw  her  simply  as  a 
piece  of  jetsam  likely  to  go  to  pieces  in  a  particularly 
violent  tempest.  As  his  conception  of  himself  was 

107 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

as  a  kind  of  general  salvage-hunter,  he  looked  in  to 
tea  upon  this  summer  afternoon.  Iris,  of  course,  had 
no  notion  that  she  was  being  district-visited. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  said  he,  "I  fear  that  your 
baby  conflict  next  door  has  been  a  little  over- 
shadowed?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  assented.  "After  all,  one 
must  amuse  oneself  I  Is  gaiety  only  a  virtue  in  peace- 
time?" 

"I  am  inclined  to  think,"  answered  the  Reverend 
John,  "that  in  time  of  war  it  becomes  one  of  the 
cardinal  virtues,  but  it  must,  of  course,  only  rank 
as  comic  relief." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  what  she  divined  to 
be  his  thoughts,  "I  am  already  beginning  to  feel  de- 
graded at  my  own  uselessness.  Do  you  know  that  to 
be  useless  is  the  loneliest  thing  in  the  world?" 

He  nodded  gravely. 

"Can  it  be,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  discovering 
that  other  lady  I  mentioned  to  you?" 

"Dear  me,  no,"  she  returned ;  "it  is  only  that  other 
people  have  discovered  that  she  does  not  exist." 

"Don't  let  the  war  make  you  bitter,"  he  said. 
"That  is  what  Mars  likes  to  do,  and  we  do  not  wish 
the  evil  gods  to  win." 

"Philosophy  is  like  a  patent  medicine,"  she 
sneered.  "It  only  works  for  those  that  have  faith." 

"Silly  woman,"  he  returned  good-naturedly,  "you 
are  trying  to  be  clever  in  the  face  of  truth." 

She  laughed,  and  the  conversation  turned  in  other 
108 


KNITTING  AND  EMBROIDERY 

directions.  She  told  him  of  Andrea,  from  whom 
she  had  not  heard  since  the  outbreak  of  war,  and 
found  to  her  disgust  that  her  need  of  sympathy  was 
not  so  great  as  his  desire  to  give  it.  After  he  had 
left  she  had  a  feeling  of  being  at  bay  with  the  world. 
Honest,  sterling  people  were  finding  her  out.  .  .  . 
What  had  become  of  the  other  lady?  She  looked 
long  into  the  glass — that  glass  which  always  afforded 
her  so  much  satisfaction.  ."You  aren't  real,"  she 
said  to  herself.  But  there  was  a  horrible  suspicion  in 
her  mind  that  she  was  as  real  as  she  was  able  to 
be.  Thus  a  butterfly  will  turn  and  look  upon  itself 
and  shudder.  She  took  her  introspective  attack  for 
a  virtue.  "At  least,"  she  said,  "I  know  my  faults." 
Poor  human  nature  is  reduced  to  many  a  shift  for 
comfort's  sake. 

Yet  Iris  was  singing  merrily  when  she  went  up  to 
bed,  and  in  the  few  moments  before  she  dropped  off 
to  sleep  was  drowsily  debating  whether  any  amuse- 
ment was  likely  to  be  derived  from  a  seduction  of 
Ferdinand  Madders;  not,  of  course,  beyond  the 
point  where  he  would  be  sent  away  and  she  would 
become  a  regret  in  his  life,  but  still  a  seduction. 
Women  love  to  be  regrets. 

For  many  days  she  fought  a  kind  of  guerilla  war- 
fare with  her  own  self-esteem.  She  even  found  her- 
self with  a  curious  longing  to  be  a  sufferer  in  the 
tragedy  which  had  swept  everybody  else  into  its  net; 
but  she  had  no  country  and  could  take  no  sides,  and, 
save  for  the  hope  that  no  harm  would  come  to 

109 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

Andrea,  she  was  entirely  unmoved  by  the  events 
which  were  absorbing  her  neighbours.  As  for 
Andrea,  her  anxiety  for  him  was  all  the  less  as  he 
had  told  her  in  his  last  letter  that  he  was  attached 
to  the  staff  of  his  division,  a  position  which  she 
imagined  to  be  quite  divorced  from  the  actual  fight- 
ing-line. Thus  she  was  in  the  unique  position  of  one 
who  could  look  upon  the  whole  affair  as  ridiculous 
without  being  considered  unpatriotic.  But  this  out- 
look gave  her  no  comfort  at  all.  To  be  marooned 
upon  the  moon  may  have  its  ridiculous  side,  but  it  is 
to  be  marooned  nevertheless. 


CHAPTER  X 

BROWN    AND    SMITH 

MR.  CUMBERS  and  his  wife  were  alone  after  dinner. 
The  little  man  had  read  the  evening  paper  to  Mary 
from  end  to  end  and  had  left  every  minister  and 
general  without  a  shred  of  reputation.  For  the 
moment  his  eloquence  had  run  dry.  He  stood  on  the 
hearthrug*  his  fingers  in  the  armholes  of  his  waist- 
coat, regarding  her  with  a  gloomy  frown. 

"About  Tristram,"  he  said  suddenly.  Mary's 
heart  suddenly  began  to  thump  hard. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  answered. 

"Has  he  said  anything?" 

"Nothing — nothing  very  much,"  she  paused.  "He 
called  it  legalised  murder  at  lunch,"  she  said  un- 
willingly. 

Henry  Cumbers  sighed. 

"I  wish  he  had  a  weak  heart,  or  astigmatism  or 
something!"  he  said. 

"Oh,  Henry!"  she  protested. 

"Well,"  spluttered  the  little  man  in  a  pretence  of 
>  "y°u  don't  want  him  to  go,  do  you?" 

"I  think  his  conscience  is  against  it,"  she  said 
in 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

slowly.  Henry  Cumbers  looked  her  squarely  in  the 
eye.  Suddenly  she  stretched  out  her  arms. 

"Oh!"  she  said  softly,  "I  don't  know  what  I  think. 
Mayn't  a  mother  be  a  little  bit  of  a  coward?" 

There  was  a  great  tenderness  in  her  husband's 
heavy  foolish  face  as  he  took  one  of  her  hands. 

"You  had  a  bad  time  when  he  was  born,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  remember  you  making  much  fuss  about 
that." 

"It  was  for  him,"  she  answered.  Henry  Cumbers 
turned  away  to  the  window. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "this  is  for  him  too." 

A  silence  fell  upon  them. 

"He  is  our  only  one,"  said  Mary  at  last,  arguing 
with  herself. 

"Don't  fool  about  with  the  subject,"  snapped 
Henry.  He  always  covered  up  distress  by  pretend- 
ing to  be  in  a  temper.  Mary  Cumbers  was  very 
white  when  she  turned  to  him. 

"Don't  say  you  want  me  to  ask  him  to  go,"  she 
said.  "I  couldn't  bear  it  then — if  anything  hap- 
pened." 

"No,  no,"  he  returned.  "I  don't  want  that."  He 
drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  panes  looking  out 
on  to  the  little  front  garden.  He  had  the  air  of  a 
faithful  dog,  puzzled  at  some  action  of  his  master. 
A  son  is  often  master  of  his  sire. 

"It's  not  a  good  year  for  the  roses,"  he  said  sud- 
denly and  relapsed  into  silence.  Then  he  swung 
round  into  the  room. 

112 


BROWN  AND  SMITH 

"It's  not  that  I  care  what  other  people  say — I 
don't  care  a  bit.  I  don't  want  him  to  go.  I  wish  he 
had  one  leg,  or  a  hump — anything.  I  think  I'd  go 
mad  if  he  was  out  there.  But  he's  got  to  grow  up. 
The  war  will  end  one  day.  It  doesn't  matter  to  us. 
We'll  be  under  the  ground.  He'll  go  on  living,  and 
every  little  bit  of  pleasure  he  snatches  out  of  life  will 
be  poisoned  for  him."  He  turned  again  to  the 
window.  "He  doesn't  understand,"  he  muttered, 
"he  doesn't  understand.  Look  at  that  fellow  there 
— in  khaki — he's  buying  my  boy's  pleasures  for  him. 
He  may  be  killed — that  chap — and  he'll  have  bought 
my  boy's  life.  That's  what  it  will  mean  for  him." 
He  broke  off  again  and  began  to  stuff  his  pipe  with 
tobacco,  leaving  edges  trailing  over  the  bowl,  a  habit 
which  had  secretly  hurt  Mary's  sense  of  neatness  for 
many  years.  She  answered  nothing.  Like  most 
women  when  talking  of  the  thing  nearest  their  hearts, 
her  mind  was  far  ahead  of  the  conversation,  ex- 
periencing the  emotions  of  disasters  which  might 
never  happen.  It  was  not  the  first  time  they  had 
talked  of  Tristram's  attitude  towards  the  war.  At 
first,  when  each  hardly  dared  suggest  their  thoughts 
to  the  other,  it  had  been  merely  a  look — a  kind  of 
mutual  understanding — but  now  it  had  become  a 
definite  trouble,  an  issue  that  could  no  longer  be 
shirked. 

Mr.  Cumbers  changed  the  subject. 

"I  met  Madders,"  he  said,  "on  the  way  home. 
What  a  very  unpleasant  type  of  man.  All  brag — 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

what's  he  done  since  the  war  but  talk?  Now  he's 
talking  about  a  theatrical  performance  he's  going  to 
get  up  for  the  Red  Cross.  I  know  what  that  means 
— a  beanfeast  with  Madders  as  the  important  fellow. 
But  he  doesn't  spend  a  penny  himself!" 

He  snorted  derisively.  "If  people  can't  be  of  use," 
he  added,  "it's  their  business  to  hold  their  tongues." 

Then  he  proceeded  to  show,  with  a  blotting  pad 
and  the  fittings  of  Mary's  work-basket,  what  an  utter 
mess  Lord  French  was  making  of  the  situation. 

Now  the  soul  of  Tristram  was  as  a  Devon  river 
after  a  storm,  turbulent  and  cloudy.  At  first  he 
never  dreamt  for  a  moment  that  the  war  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  him.  He  looked  at  it  as  one  might 
regard  an  epidemic  in  a  distant  country.  He  be- 
longed to  a  local  debating  society,  a  club  of  young 
men  of  his  own  age,  violent  progressives,  of  course, 
whose  powers  of  denunciation  were  terrific  though 
their  constructive  ideas  were  few.  They  had,  for  in- 
stance, debated  and  condemned  utterly  the  Suffrage 
of  Women,  chiefly  upon  psychological  grounds,  each 
having  a  mental  vision  of  his  own  particular  angel  as 
an  M.P.  and  dismissing  the  whole  matter  as  ludicrous 
forthwith.  The  war  had  rather  upset  their  line  of 
thought.  Those  whose  reputation  for  progressive 
ideas  had  been  conspicuous  felt  it  incumbent  upon 
them  to  keep  it  alive  by  a  more  or  less  Olympian  dis- 
dain for  the  whole  affair.  At  the  one  meeting  they 
had  held  since  the  outbreak  the  general  tone  had 
been  one  of  patronising  disapproval  of  the  childish 

114 


BROWN  AND  SMITH 

behaviour  of  emperors  and  governments.  That  was 
very  early  in  the  march  of  events,  and  Tristram  had 
been  pleased  with  himself  for  coining  a  phrase: 
"Nursery  monarchs  knocking  over  each  other's 
bricks."  They  deplored  the  undoubted  fact  that  na- 
tions were  ruled,  in  the  main,  by  old  men.  Amongst 
these  rhetoricians  Tristram's  grand  passion  was 
known  and  respected.  It  is  only  at  the  ages  of  fifteen 
and  fifty  that  men  make  fun  of  one  another  for  be- 
ing in  love. 

It  was  to  a  meeting  of  this  little  coterie  that 
Tristram  had  gone  on  the  night  of  which  we  have  just 
spoken.  The  subject  of  the  debate  had  been  "Em- 
pire: is  it  a  justifiable  ideal?"  It  was  held  by  an  al- 
most unanimous  show  of  hands  that  the  only  gentle- 
manly condition  for  any  state  of  society  was  that  of 
a,  fourth-class  nation.  Then  a  curious  thing  hap- 
pened. A  certain  youth  named  Gilmour,  a  member 
of  the  society,  arrived  at  the  end  of  the  meeting  in 
an  officer's  uniform.  He  was,  as  it  happened,  the 
first  of  their  number  to  appear  in  khaki.  Others  had 
enlisted  and  disappeared,  but  here  was  Gilmour  in 
the  flesh.  He  had  never  been  considered  a  shining 
light  in  the  debates,  being  a  somewhat  slow-minded 
youth  who  liked  to  absorb  life  gradually  and  to 
whom  the  mental  fireworks  of  some  of  his  com- 
panions appeared  both  fatiguing  and  unsatisfactory. 
Now  here  he  was,  wearing  the  insignia  of  the  King's 
Commission. 

The  company  felt  vaguely  that  there  was  some- 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

thing  dramatic  in  his  appearance.  He  was  going  out 
there  .  .  .  the  war  appeared  as  something  imper- 
sonal at  that  time.  What  on  earth  had  Gilmour  to 
do  with  it?  Good  old  Gilmour  who  was  going  into 
a  solicitor's  office  and  never  could  pass  exams  1 

They  crowded  round  him  curiously.  Someone 
asked  what  the  devil  he'd  gone  and  done  it  for,  and 
Gilmour  laughed  nervously. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "the  good  old  flag,  you  know, 
and  all  that;  they  were  wanting  chaps." 

As  they  were  leaving  a  tall,  lank-haired  young  man 
named  Ferris  remarked  that  Gilmour  was  "rather 
crude,  you  know."  Six  months  later  Ferris  was 
blown  to  pieces  looking  for  a  friend's  body,  but  no- 
body seemed  to  consider  it  crude. 

Tristram  found  himself  curiously  disturbed  as  he 
started  home. 

Now  the  Reverend  John  had  a  habit  of  walking 
after  dinner.  He  used  to  discard  his  clerical  clothes, 
which  he  called  "protective  colouring,"  and,  dressed 
in  an  old  tweed  suit  which  would  have  disgraced  even 
a  country  village,  he  walked,  sometimes  for  miles, 
through  streets  or  over  the  Heath,  holding  conver- 
sations with  his  pipe.  Thus  he  found  Tristram  re- 
turning from  the  debating  society,  and  the  boy,  who 
was  feeling  the  need  of  companionship,  asked  if  he 
might  accompany  him. 

"Of  course,"  answered  the  clergyman,  and  to  him- 
self:  "The  boy's  mind's  in  a  mess — wants  to  talk — 
what  should  we  do  without  our  tongues  ?" 

116 


BROWN  AND  SMITH 

But  they  had  walked  for  half  an  hour  before 
Tristram  spoke. 

"Do  you  care  tuppence  about  the  country?"  he 
said  suddenly — "I  mean  about  England?" 

The  Reverend  John  said  nothing  for  a  rnomenty 
puffing  thoughtfully  at  his  pipe. 

"Say  on,"  he  answered  at  last.  "There's  some 
more,  isn't  there?" 

"Only  that  I  don't "  There  was  a  kind  of 

longing  in  the  boy's  voice.  He  kicked  a  stone  from 
the  path.  "I  just  don't  care,"  he  repeated  slowly. 
"It's  selfish." 

"We're  always  discovering  ourselves,"  said  the 
clergyman.  "Bits  and  pieces — it  took  me  sixty  years 
— to  get  rid  of  everything  I  thought  was  me  and 
wasn't — I  mean.  Now  I  know  myself  and  I  can  die. 
See  what  I'm  driving  at?" 

The  boy  nodded. 

"I  think  so,"  he  said;  "you  mean  that's  what  liv- 
ing's for — to  find  out  if  you're  worth  anything " 

"And  to  find  out,"  went  on  the  Reverend  John, 
"that  nobody  is  worth  anything  to  themselves — 
that's  like  a  snake  eating  its  tail,"  he  broke  off,  jerk- 
ing his  thoughts  out,  as  was  the  nature  of  the  man. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  believe  in  England;  but,  of  courser 
one  oughtn't  to  if  one  doesn't  know  why." 

"Do  you  know  why?"  There  was  an  eager  note 
in  the  question. 

"I  think  so,"  answered  the  old  man  slowly.  "I 
think  so.  I  think  it's  because  we've  triumphed  over 

117 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

our  mistakes.  The  Elizabethans  of  course  were 
buccaneers,  but  Drake  must  have  been  a  dear  man 
— a  dear  man !"  He  rolled  the  "r"  caressingly.  "I'd 
like  to  have  had  a  pipe  with  him;  of  course  people 
lived  rather  broadly — but  Rabelais  is  awfully 
healthy,  you  know — yes,  I  think  that's  the  word — 
we're  a  healthy  people.  It's  a  word  that's  gone  out 
of  fashion;  people  seem  to  think  it's  a  synonym  for 
stupidity.  I'd  rather  be  anything  than  anaemic — 
thinking  of  things  in  circles;  you  can't  get  any  further. 
I  could  prove  the  grass  blue — in  words.  That's  what 
words  have  become — playthings.  Look  at  modern 
literature !  Of  course,  after  the  eighteenth  and  nine- 
teenth centuries  something  unpleasant  was  bound  to 
happen — in  the  world's  intellect,  I  mean.  There  were 
signs  of  brain  storm  in  our  own  country,  but  we've 
survived  it.  We  are  the  world's  police;  we've  got 
the  job  by  accidents,  but  we've  been  handling  it  all 
right.  Quis  custodiet  ipsos  custodes?  Well,  I  be- 
lieve the  answer  is  God !  People  don't  talk  like  that ; ' 
it's  bad  form.  And  a  good  thing  too!  Convictions 
oughtn't  to  be  talked  about.  But  I  believe  that's  be- 
hind it  all."  He  was  thinking  of  the  armies.  "If 
you  told  them  so  they'd  turn  it  up.  Englishmen  are 
ashamed  of  their  best  notions — like  children — dearrr 
men !"  His  mind  raced  with  his  words,  and  as  usual, 
beat  them,  but  the  boy  caught  the  drift  of  the  old 
man's  faith. 

"Look  here,"  he  blurted  out  suddenly,  "I  don't 
feel  that.    I  don't  believe  most  fellows  do.    I  don't 

118 


BROWN  AND  SMITH 

care  about  England  or  the  Empire.  I  wish  I  did. 
It's  like  religion  and  faith,  I  suppose,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  Either  you've  got  it  or  you  haven't — 
most  people  haven't." 

The  Reverend  John  sighed. 

"In  this  world,"  he  said,  "if  you  don't  fight  for 
something  you'll  find  yourself  fighting  for  your  peace 
of  mind — everyone  finds  that  out." 

The  boy  said  nothing  for  some  minutes,  then  he 
spoke  as  if  to  himself. 

"And  I'm  a  coward  too,"  he  murmured. 

"You  are  asking  yourself  questions,"  said  the  old 
man,  "without  any  intention  of  answering  them." 

"You  don't  believe  in  doing  things  blindly — fol- 
lowing the  crowd?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Reverend  John  a  little 
cryptically,  "if  the  crowd  is  going  your  way." 

"But  if  they  are  not?" 

The  clergyman  stopped  suddenly. 

"Tristram,"  he  said,  "I  believe  you  are  a  sincere 
boy,  but  you  are  wandering  round  and  round  your 
problem.  You  do  not  want  to  enlist.  You  think 
you  are  a  coward  and  afraid  to  die.  You're  quite 
wrong.  You  are  much  more  afraid  of  being  awk- 
ward and  uncomfortable;  you  want  me  to  say  it  is 
your  duty  or  it  is  not  your  duty.  You  want  'to  use 
the  Church  as  cold  cream  to  your  conscience.  My 
dear  boy,  half  a  clergyman's  life  is  spent  avoiding 
that  mistake.  I  will  say  nothing  to  you  whatever." 

119 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

The  boy  stood  still,  looking  over  the  gorsebushes 
at  the  line  of  hills  to  the  north. 

"But,"  he  said  slowly,  "you  think  I  ought  to  go." 

"No,"  answered  the  other.  "I  know  that  only 
you  yourself  know  whether  you  ought  to  go  or  not. 
Courage?" — he  dug  his  stick  into  the  ground — "Few 
of  us  are  afraid  of  death  ; 'we're  afraid  of  each  other's 
opinions;  the  fearlessness  of  the  cave  man  was  bred 
in  his  loneliness — but  that's  nothing  to  do  with  the 
point;  I  do  wish  I  could  keep  to  points,"  he  added 
pathetically. 

Tristram  turned  to  the  old  man  suddenly. 

"Surely,"  he  said,  "it  is  wrong  to  fight?" 
He  felt  his  companion's  hand  rest  lightly  on  his 
shoulder. 

"It  is  worse,"  whispered  the  deep  voice,  "to  lie!" 

And  though  he  said  nothing  else,  the  boy  under- 
stood that  to  lie  to  oneself  is  worst  of  all. 

They  came  sudenly  to  the  foot  of  a  sandy  hillock 
and  stopped. 

Standing  on  the  little  mound  was  a  woman,  her 
hands  lifted  to  the  sky  as  if  in  prayer,  but  it  was  an 
utterly  pagan  pose.  Tristram  started  suddenly,  but 
it  was  the  Reverend  John  who  recognised  her  first 
— and  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  arm. 

"Pan,"  she  was  saying,  "if  you  are  not  dead — 
take  me  out  of  this  silly,  serious  world — take  me  out 
and  I  will  be  your  mistress — you  and  Bacchus."  She 
stopped  and  dropped  her  hands. 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  said  the  Reverend  John 
120 


BROWN  AND  SMITH 

aloud,  "that  she  knows  how  nice  she  looks  .  .  . 
silhouetted  like  that!" 

Iris  turned  round  and  saw  them. 

"Which  is  Pan,"  she  laughed,  "and  which  is 
Bacchus?" 

The  old  man  looked  up  at  her  with  twinkling  eyes. 

"Maenad,"  he  said,  "we  are  deities  whose  powers 
are  greater  than  any  of  your  earth  gods." 

"Your  names !"  she  cried. 

"Brown  and  Smith,"  he  answered  quite  seriously, 
and  helped  her  down. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  said.  "Your  work-a-day  philos- 
ophies make  the  world  a  fearful  anticlimax  to  the 
Creation." 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  the  Reverend  John.  "You 
see,  I  really  believe  in  Brown  and  Smith." 

"Such  ordinary  deities !"  she  protested,  then  swung 
away,  laughing  to  the  boy. 

"Tristram,"  she  said,  putting  her  face  close  to 
his,  "what  would  you  do  if  I  told  you  I  loved  you — 
here  and  now?"  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  how 
she  had  hurt  him. 

"He  would  doubtless,"  said  the  old  man,  "behave 
very  foolishly." 

"Like  Brown  and  Smith !"  she  triumphed. 

He  nodded. 

"Certainly,"  he  answered  as  they  started  to  walk 
home  together,  "but  there  is  one  point  in  the  situa- 
tion which  you  leave  out — a  very  vital  point." 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked. 

121 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"Why,  simply,"  replied  the  old  man,  "that  other 
lady  I  told  you  about,  and  her  name  is  Miss  Smith. 
The  fact  is,"  he  added,  "that  we  all  have  our  pe- 
culiarities and  our  beauties  and  our  clevernesses,  but 
when  the  big  things  happen  in  the  world  we  stand 
to  lose  or  to  win  just  as  much  as  everyone  else;  in 
fact,  if  you  want  a  place  in  the  world  you  must  fight 
for  it — sooner  or  later.  We  become  plain  Brown 
and  Smith  .  .  .  disappointing  but  true."  And  the 
curious  old  gentleman  chuckled  to  himself  most  of  the 

way  home. 

*  *  *  * 

"I  am  not,"  remarked  Mr.  Cumbers  a  few  days' 
later  as  he  bent  over  his  spade,  "an  unreasonable 


man." 


"Certainly  not,  dear,"  assented  his  wife,  who  was 
helping  him  quite  ineffectually  in  the  garden.  Not 
that  she  was  ever  there  really  for  any  other  purpose 
than  blame.  So  long  as  Henry  had  someone  to 
snap  at  for  the  mistakes  he  made  he  was  perfectly 
content  with  himself.  It  is  what  is  known  as  the 
Army  system,  and  works  admirably. 

"I  repeat,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  not  an  unreason- 
able man,  but  why  on  earth  England  should  offer 
hospitality  to  aliens  of  no  nationality  at  times  like 
these,  I  cannot  imagine." 

"Oh,  hush,  dear,"  whispered  Mary;  "she  might 
hear." 

"Do  her  good,"  murmured  Henry.  "Foreigners 

never  realise  their  inferiority "  He  broke  off. 

122 


BROWN  AND  SMITH 

"Madders  says,"  he  added  suddenly,  "that  they 
can  hear  the  guns  in  France  at  Dover — I  don't  know 
whether  he  can  be  trusted  .  .  .  The  guns 1"  he  mut- 
tered, leaning  on  his  spade  and  looking  over  the  road. 
"It  makes  you  feel  you're  reading  a  history — King- 
lake  or  somebody — only  now  the  book  matters  to 
you.  You  can't  feel  it's  real  and  you  never  get  the 
relief  of  feeling  it's  not  real  ...  do  you  know  what 
I  mean,  Mary?  No,  of  course  you  don't,  you  never 
do."  This  last  peevishness  because  Mary,  who  had 
not  been  attending,  was  looking  at  him  with  puzzled 
eyes  which  had  other  thoughts  behind  them  but  which 
he  interpreted  as  mental  inability  to  follow  him.  Few 
married  men  knew  less  about  women  than  Henry 
Cumbers. 

"I  do  see,"  said  Mary,  on  the  defensive.  "I  often 
feel  it  isn't  real  myself." 

"Well,  if  you  feel  things  you  ought  to  say  so," 
grumbled  her  husband.  "What's  married  life  for?. 
Surely  you  can  unburden  yourself  to  me?" 

A  hoarse  shout  came  from  the  street. 

"What's  that,"  he  said  quickly,  "a  paper?" 

Mary  ran  to  the  gate.  Henry's  mind  was  for  ever 
on  the  war.  He  really  felt  part  of  it.  Unlike  most 
of  those  who  were,  for  one  reason  or  another,  to 
stay  at  home  while  the  great  issue  was  fought  out, 
the  thing  was  personal  to  him.  He  identified  him- 
self with  England  and  felt  towards  Germany  as  a 
man  does  when  a  thief  snatches  at  his  watch  chain. 

Mary  came  back  with  the  paper. 
123 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"Another  advance,"  she  said.  He  took  the  sheet 
from  her  and  glanced  down  it.  "Oh,  Henry,"  she 
said,  "supposing  we  don't  win?" 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  he  asked.  "Not 
win?" 

"They  are  so  prepared — so  strong." 

Henry  stuck  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
frowned. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "it's — it's  a  machine;  ma- 
chines can't  win;  a  machine  can  always  be  broken. 
It's  like  a  steam-hammer.  I  saw  one  up  at  Hull — a 
vast  thing.  It  caught  a  fellow  and  killed  him.  .  .  . 
He  lived  about  an  hour  and  never  even  moaned.  I 
remember  looking  at  the  machine  and  thinking  what 
an  awful  thing  it  would  be  if  it  had  a  soul — but  ma- 
chines haven't." 

Mary  regarded  him  curiously.  It  was  only  very 
seldom  that  Henry  let  in  these  sidelights  on  his  pri- 
vate imagination. 

"But  it  killed  the  man,"  she  hazarded. 

"You  haven't  won,"  he  said  sententiously,  "be- 
cause you've  knocked  the  life  out  of  a  man's  body.'' 
And  then  it  suddenly  struck  him  that  perhaps  you 
had,  and  he  fell  to  ruminating. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Tristram  appeared. 
He  walked  slowly  up  the  path  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  for  all  the  world  like  a  small  boy  about  to 
confess  that  he  has  smashed  a  flower-pot. 

"Father,"  he  said  slowly,  "I've  enlisted.  I'm  in 
the  East  Kents." 

124 


BROWN  AND  SMITH 

Mr.  Cumbers  straightened  himself  up.  He  felt 
a  glow  all  over  his  body  like  the  glow  of  a  cold 
bath;  he  was  immense  with  pride,  but  his  remark 
was  characteristic. 

"Why  on  earth,"  he  said,  "the  East  Kents?" 

"It  didn't  seem  to  matter,"  said  the  boy  listlessly. 
For  a  moment  Henry  stared  at  his  son  curiously. 
"Not  matter?  Surely  the  Middlesex "  Sud- 
denly he  heard  a  low  trembling  voice  at  his  side. 

"The  guns!"  it  said.  "The  guns  they  hear  at 
Dover."  He  caught  Mary's  arm  as  she  stood,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  her  boy,  her  mouth,  hardly  moving, 
muttering  again  and  again:  "the  guns!" 

"Teh!"  said  Henry,  "what  a  fool  I  ami"  He 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"Courage!     Courage,  little  woman!"  he  said. 

"I  will,"  she  answered  and  smiled;  her  hand,  shak- 
ing a  little,  found  Tristram's.  "I'm  sorry,"  she  said. 
"What  a  foolish  old  mother  you  have — and  I'm  so 
proud  of  you,  my  darling!" 

They  went  into  the  house. 

After  dinner  Henry  warmed  to  the  situation;  but 
he  found  Tristram  unresponsive.  There  was  none 
of  the  obstinate  patriotism  he  himself  felt — nothing 
apparently  but  the  sense  of  an  inward  force 
majeure.  Henry  was  a  little  mystified. 

"Why  are  you  going  then?"  he  said.  "You  hate 
it— you  wouldn't  rather  be  in  one  regiment  than  an- 
other; no  esprit  de — whatever  it  is!  I  can't  under- 

125 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

stand  you."  A  thought  suddenly  struck  him.  "It 
isn't  that  woman?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"Good  God,  no!"  answered  the  boy. 

"Thank  Heaven,"  muttered  his  father,  "the  boy's 
not  doing  it  for  nothing." 

They  were  silent  for  some  minutes.  Then 
Tristram,  removing  his  cigarette  rather  elaborately 
from  between  his  lips,  spoke. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "when  the  big  things  happen 
in  the  world  we  all  become  plain  Brown  and  Smith; 
if  you  want  a  place  in  the  world  you  must  fight  for 
it — sooner  or  later.  .  .  .  Seems  so,  anyway,"  he 
added  awkwardly.  Henry  nodded  and  wondered 
who  had  been  talking  to  the  boy. 

Upstairs  a  mother  sent  prayer  after  prayer  float- 
ing away  to  God  over  a  sea  of  tears. 


126 


'NIGHT  OPERATIONS" 


SOME  evenings  later  Muriel  was  leaning  over  the 
garden  gate  talking  to  Iris.  "Tristram  has  enlisted," 
she  said;  "he  joins  to-morrow." 

"What!  That  boy  a  soldier!"  The  Russian 
checked  a  laugh.  .  .  .  Courage?  After  all,  ap- 
parently he  had  it;  he  and  Andrea,  Apollo  and — well, 
say  Thersites,  they  both  had  this  thing  in  common. 
It  was  very  odd. 

"I  knew  he'd  go,"  Muriel  was  saying.  "It  will 
be  awful." 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  him?"  asked  the  other. 

"Of  course  I  am.  Why  should  I  try  to  under- 
stand his  infatuation  for  you  if  I  wasn't?  You  see, 
Iris,  I've  been  thinking  lately.  You've  not  got  every- 
thing, you  know." 

Iris  laughed. 

"Of  course  not,"  she  said.  "Whoever  imagined 
I  had?" 

"I  did,"  answered  the  girl  simply.  "Everything 
comes  down  to  how  much  you've  got  to  give — in  the 
end.  Tristram's  found  he  can  give  something,  so 
he's  gone  to  give  it.  ...  You've  lots  of  things  to 

127 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

give — beauty  and  laughter  and  things;  but  I — well, 
I'm  not  particularly  pretty,  and  I'm  too  sensible  to  be 
really  clever,  but  I  bet  I  could  sit  opposite  Tristram 
for  forty  years  and  he'd  never  know  I'd  changed.  I 
shall  know  how  to  be  an  old  woman." 

"Shan't  I?"  asked  Iris. 

"Oh,  I  hope  you  will,"  said  Muriel  seriously, 
"otherwise  you're  going  to  be  awfuly  unhappy. 
Sometimes,"  she  added  suddenly,  "I  don't  see  any 
difference  between  ordering  butter  and  writing  an 
epic;  don't  you  feel  the  war's  going  to  make  every- 
body awfully  important?  I  mean  all  the  people  who 
don't  count  because  they're  ordinary." 

Iris  nodded. 

"I  dare  say,"  she  said.  But  the  suggestion  an- 
noyed her  for  all  that.  A  great  many  people  find 
the  oxygen  of  their  lives  in  imagining  that  they  are 
extraordinary.  Muriel  went  away,  busy  on  little 
things,  and  Iris  took  Andrea's  latest  letter  up  from 
her  bureau.  He  studiously  avoided  mention  of  the 
war  in  which  he  was  engaged.  His  letter  was  full  of 
hopes  that  she  was  not  suffering  any  inconvenience. 
It  was  a  letter  that  made  her  like  him  more  than 
ever,  but  she  put  it  away  with  a  feeling  that  he  was 
engaged  on  a  business  which  he  never  expected  her 
to  understand.  This  assumption  of  man  makes 
women  mad — maddest  when  it  is  true.  Several  un- 
important ornaments  got  broken  before  Iris  became 
herself  again.  It  was  characteristic  of  her  that,  how- 
ever furious  she  became,  she  never  smashed  anything 

128 


"NIGHT  OPERATIONS" 

that  was  really  beautiful.  It  would  have  gone  far 
towards  redeeming  her  character  if  she  had.  She 
remembered  suddenly  that  she  had  an  appointment 
with  the  Reverend  John.  Madders  had  enlisted  her 
for  work  on  the  committee  for  his  matinee.  The 
committee  had  been  a  little  shocked;  a  great  deal 
had  been  said  privately  about  English  charities  being 
run  by  aliens,  for  needless  to  say  Iris  had  very  quickly 
taken  the  lead  in  everything.  Madders  had  pointed 
out  that  her  special  knowledge  of  the  theatre  made 
her  indispensable.  Iris  had  hinted  at  having  been 
"on  the  stage,"  and  of  course  no  one  imagined  her 
as  anything  else  than  a  "  Stella  internazionale."  Now 
she  was  taking  the  programme  for  the  Reverend 
John's  approval.  It  was  a  subtle  testimonial  to  the 
old  gentleman's  personality  that  everything  in  his 
parish  came  naturally  under  the  patronage  of  the 
church.  As  a  churchman  the  Reverend  John  was 
possibly  taking  money  under  false  pretences,  but  as 
a  professional  friend  he  was  worth  more  than  his. 
four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year.  Like  most 
great  men,  he  had  bad  habits.  He  used  to  talk  to 
his  cat.  He  was  arguing  with  this  animal  when  Iris 
was  announced,  and,  as  he  never  cut  off  a  train  of 
thought  on  anyone's  behalf,  she  stood  in  the  door- 
way some  seconds  listening  to  the  end  of  the 
dialectic. 

"  'E's  often  this  way,"  said  Mrs.  Jallop,  in  ex- 
planation as  she  disappeared.  "Cat,"  the  Reverend 
John  was  saying,  "you  deserve  a  certain  amount  of 

129 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

clerical  confidence;  after  all,  the  Egyptians  set  you 
very  high,  and  although  I  cannot  agree  with  their 
theology — though  on  its  political  side  I  believe  it  was 
not  without  its  advantages — yet  I  cannot  at  the  same 
time  bring  myself  to  regard  you  merely  as  a  cat;  it 
appears — does  it  not? — that  I  am  an  exceedingly 
foolish  old  man  and  ought  to  be  defrocked."  The 
cat  turned  over  dreamily  in  its  comfortable  sleep. 
Perhaps  it  remembered  in  a  vague  sort  of  way  hav- 
ing heard  this  sort  of  thing  before,  many  years  ago 
in  Thebes  or  Alexandria.  "A  great  many  big  little 
things  are  happening  on  this  planet,  my  dear  cat,  and 
I  have  a  quaint  idea  that  you,  with  those  absurd  great 
amber  eyes,  keep  looking  at  the  solar  system  and 
laughing  at  our  travails.  You're  often  out  at  night, 
aren't  you?"  He  looked  up  suddenly  and  saw  Iris. 

"Come  in!  Come  in!"  he  said,  quite  unabashed. 
"This  is  my  cat,  an  excellent  conversationalist.  He 
never  contradicts,  partly  because  he  has  no  concep- 
tion of  what  I  am  talking  about.  -That  is  a  great 
advantage  in  an  argument." 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  Iris,  "that  I  must  have 
appeared  rather  odd  to  you  the  other  evening  saying 
prayers  to  Pan." 

The  Reverend  John's  eyes  twinkled. 

"I  was,"  he  said,  "inexpressibly  shocked." 

"What  is  wrong  with  Pan?"  she  asked,  sinking 
onto  the  rug  with  that  peculiar  grace  which  had  first 
won  the  admiration  of  Muriel. 

"Nothing  whatever — as  far  as  he  goes,"  answered 
130 


"NIGHT  OPERATIONS" 

the  clergyman;  "but  the  pose!  You  really  looked 
too  lovely  silhouetted  like  that.  Pardon  the  phrase 
— but  you  might  have  been  a  statue  erected  to  the 
memory  of  all  the  courtesans  of  the  world." 

She  smiled. 

"You  have  a  genius,"  she  murmured,  "for  saying 
the  things  women  shouldn't  like  to  hear — but  do; 
yet  if  I  really  was  a  courtesan  you  would  not  wish  to 
sit  here  talking  to  me." 

"What  a  silly  thing  to  say,"  observed  the  old 
gentleman,  "for  if  you  had  the  soul  of  a  courtesan 
I  shouldn't  amuse  you  in  the  least.  Let  me  see  this 
programme." 

She  handed  him  the  list  and  he  sat  back. 

''Number  one,'"  he  read,  "'Song:  Miss  Fig- 
gis.' '  He  sighed.  "A  sweet  woman,  Miss  Figgis," 
he  murmured,  "a  good,  kindly  soul  and  a  regular 
churchgoer,  but  she  has  two  vices :  'A  little  grey  home 
in  the  West'  and  'When  you  come  home,  dear.' 
Sometimes  at  concerts  I  have  great  difficulty  in  per- 
suading myself  that  these  are  only  venial  sins.  'Num- 
ber two,  Humorous  duet:  Ferdinand  Madders,  Esq., 
and  Miss  Palmer.' '  He  looked  at  Iris  over  his 
glasses.  "I  wonder  if  that's  wise !"  he  said. 

"I  read  the  song,"  she  put  in.  "It's  about  a  but- 
terfly settling  on  a  walking-stick,  thinking  it's  a 
tree.  .  .  ." 

"I  can  see  Madders  as  a  walking-stick,"  said  the 
Reverend  John,  "but  I  think  Miss  Palmer  will  find 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

her  part  a  little  beyond  her.  However,  I  suppose 
the  thing  is  meant  to  be  funny,  anyway?" 

"Yes,"  said  Iris.  "At  least,  I  think  so — I  put  it 
down  'humorous'  when  I'd  read  it,  but  of  course  it 
might  be  sentimental  .  .  .  that's  a  little  difficult." 

"I  should  simply  put  down :  'Number  two,  Ferdi- 
nand Madders  and  Miss  Palmer.'  That  should  start 
them  all  roaring.  'Number  three,  Sketch'  " — he 
paused  inquiringly. 

"It's  one  Mrs.  Douglas  from  that  house  with  the 
check  path  wrote.  It's  awful,  but  she's  on  the  com- 
mittee and  it'll  have  to  be  done."  Iris  sighed  heavily 
as  she  spoke. 

"  'Number  four,' '  went  on  the  clergyman, 
1  'Recitation:  Madame  Iranovna.' ' 

"It's  in  French,"  she  replied.  "It's  very  beauti- 
ful— I've  done  it  many  times  abroad." 

"I  am  sure  it  will  be  delightful,"  he  said.  A  mis- 
chievous twinkle  in  her  eye,  for  all  the  world  like 
that  of  a  child  who  is  going  to  knock  down  its  play- 
mate's house  of  cards,  did  not  escape  him. 

"Perhaps,"  he  murmured,  "it  is  as  well  that  it  is 
in  French." 

Her  lips  set  obstinately. 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  she  said. 

He  sat  for  some  seconds  regarding  her.  The 
humorous,  mobile  mouth  twitched  a  little  in  the  cor- 
ner; the  fine  old  eyes  under  their  big  brows  danced 
a  little  jig  at  some  secret  delight.  He  seemed  to  her 
all  of  a  sudden  like  some  Titan  schoolmaster  sitting 

132 


"NIGHT  OPERATIONS" 

upon  an  eminence  and  watching  with  kindly  eyes  the 
peccadilloes  of  his  pupils.  Surely,  she  thought,  he 
understood  how  cramped  she  felt  in  this  place — how 
hopelessly  narrow  and  uninteresting  all  these  people 
appeared  to  her  who  had  held  a  rover  ticket  in  the 
world's  promenades  since  the  moment  of  her  birth. 
A  full  consciousness  of  her  imprisonment  suddenly 
swept  over  her.  She  flushed  with  one  of  her  sudden 
fits  of  anger. 

"Why  should  I  truckle  to  their  ideas  of  what  is 
correct?"  she  muttered.  "This  place  doesn't  set  the 
world's  fashions.  Who  are  these  people — this  Miss 
Figgis  and  Mrs.  Douglas  ?  They've  never  been  any- 
where or  done  anything.  The  biggest  adventure  of 
their  lives  is  when  they  go  to  the  altar  and  swear  to 
do  things  they  haven't  the  least  intention  of  doing. 
If  people  are  beautiful  they  call  it  vulgar  to  make  the 

most    of    it — they — they oh,    look    at    their 

houses  I  Mirrors  on  the  mantelpieces — every  one  of 
them — like  hats.  Everybody's  house  here  looks  like 
a  wedding  present.  They  don't  care,  so  they  think 
it  doesn't  matter !  And  the  furniture !  Oh — they — 
they  have  fumed-oak  minds!"  Her  anger  suddenly 
overcame  her.  "And  this  stupid  war  has  pinned  me 
down  in  this  horrible  place  with  flat-looking  women 
and  podgy  men  and  tidy  children !  Nothing's  more 
frightful  than  a  tidy  child — they're  all  tidy — tidy 
minds — tidy  morals — fools! — ignorant  fools!  Oh — I 
hate  them  all — I  hate  them  1"  And  she  smashed  to 
atoms,  on  the  fender  rail,  a  china  ash-tray. 

133 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"Now  you'd  better  put  yourself  in  the  corner," 
said  the  Reverend  John,  kicking  the  pieces  into  the 
grate. 

She  recovered  her  temper  and  looked  at  him 
quizzically. 

"You  have  my  late  husband's  failing,"  she  said; 
"he  always  behaved  like  a  gentleman.  If  you  really 
wanted  to  do  me  any  good  you  ought  to  beat  me." 

"Oh,  no,"  murmured  the  old  gentleman,  "you 
would  love  it."  He  picked  up  a  piece  of  the  broken 
china.  "I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  rather 
proud  of  your  temper." 

"You  treat  me  like  a  child,"  she  said,  and  turned 
her  face  half  way  from  him.  "I  suppose,"  she  added, 
"that  you  think  there  is  no  serious  place  in  the  world 
for  a  person  like  me." 

The  Reverend  John  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "My 
dear  lady,"  he  said,  "I  am  not  running  the  universe." 

"Do  you  know,"  she  returned,  "that  I  think  you 
are  I  I  think  you  and  your  kind  always  run  the 
universe.  I  suppose  outside  this  place  no  one's  ever 
heard  of  you?" 

"Why  should  they?" 

"But,"  her  brows  knitted,  "have  you  never  had 
ambitions  to  be  an  archbishop  or  something?" 

Again  the  look  of  pain  came  into  his  eyes  which 
she  had  seen  there  once  before,  when  she  had  said 
she  would  have  liked  to  have  been  his  daughter. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  "I  have  had  ambitions  I 
But  not  to  be  an  archbishop." 

134 


"NIGHT  OPERATIONS" 

"Not  so  much  ambitions,"  she  said  slowly,  "as1 
ideals?" 

"You  are  a  very  shrewd  woman,"  he  acquiesced. 

"And  they  have  all  let  you  down?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  agreed,  "all  except  one." 

"And  that?" 

"That  I  still  have  my  ideals."  He  laughed  and 
shook  himself  characteristically.  "We  have  become 
very  serious  all  of  a  sudden,"  he  said;  "and  do  you 
know  the  time?" 

"You  want  me  to  go?" 

"Not  at  all — I  only  thought " 

"Time  means  nothing  to  me,"  she  said  moodily. 
"That's  another  testimonial  to  my  uselessness."  She 
sighed.  "I  used  to  be  so  happy  before  I  met  all  these 
dull  people,"  she  added.  The  sentence  was  almost 
a  question. 

"I  am  beginning  to  think,"  said  the  clergyman, 
"that  you  have  come  to  me  professionally!" 

"What,  to  save  my  soul?" 

"No,  no,"  he  chuckled,  "women  never  want  their 
souls  saved — they  simply  want  to  be  told  there  is  no 
necessity  for  it!" 

"Oh,  I'm  frank  enough,"  she  said.  "I  love  beauty 
— and  luxury,  and  myself,  and — oh,  yes,  I  like  hav- 
ing happy  people  round  me,  and  I'm  fairly  honest  and 
very  selfish  and  jolly  glad  I'm  beautiful.  I  often 
wonder  whether  ugly  women  mind  being  ugly,"  So 
she  rattled  on,  laying  bare  her  whole  self  to  him — 
for  she  at  least  did  not  deceive  herself  in  this  mat- 

135 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

ter,  and  the  old  man  sat  opposite  her,  blowing  smoke 
rings  haphazard  out  of  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  and 
deeply  interested  in  her  recital. 

"I  want,"  she  said  at  last,  going  to  the  window 
and  stretching  out  her  arms,  "I  want  to  be  first  wher- 
ever I  am,  I  want  to  be  admired — adored — wor- 
shipped!" 

"And  later  on,"  murmured  the  old  gentleman, 
"you  will  want  to  be  loved." 

"Loved?"  she  echoed,  "why,  I've  always  been 
loved — men  have  loved  me  since  I  was  in  my  teens." 

"Exactly,"  he  said  enigmatically,  "you  have  hardly 
been  given  a  chance  of  being  loved." 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence — puzzled.  A  drone 
like  a  bee  caught  the  old  man's  ear  and  he  half  turned 
his  head. 

"Why,"  she  laughed,  "I'm  engaged  to  be " 

She  broke  off  the  sentence  like  a  thread.  "What's 
that?"  she  said  suddenly.  "Did  you  hear  it?" 

He  nodded. 

"There  it  is  again,"  she  said  quickly.    "Oh,  look !" 

A  beam  of  light  shot  up  away  to  the  south,  whirled 
madly  round  the  sky  for  some  seconds  and  vanished. 

The  old  gentleman  was  at  the  window — it  was  a 
still,  calm  night,  and  on  the  balcony  they  could  hear 
plainly  the  buzzing  of  that  bee.  Then  it  stopped, 
and  there  was  silence.  Only  for  a  second,  however. 
The  sound  came  from  the  street  now — a  whistle — 
piercing — seeming  to  saw  the  brain  in  two;  a  thin 

136 


"NIGHT  OPERATIONS" 

wail,  broken  off  short,  and  the  indescribable  sound 
of  people  running. 

And  then  again,  silence. 

"It  is,"  said  Iris  vaguely,  "the  not  knowing  where 
it  is " 

Then  the  searchlights  turned  the  night  piebald. 
''You  are  not  afraid?"  asked  the  old  man. 
"I'm  not  a  fool,"  she  answered;  "of  course  I'm 
afraid!" 

He  watched  her  staring  up  into  the  sky,  afraid 
but  without  a  tremble,  and  nodded  to  himself 
thoughtfully.  "Running  to  waste,"  he  murmured. 
But  she  didn't  hear  him.  A  new  sound,  seemingly 
just  above  their  heads,  intervened.  Someone  was 
throwing  peas  against  a  drum. 

'One  of  our  airmen,"  he  said ;  "a  machine-gun.    I 

think  those  fellows  are "   He  did  not  finish  the 

sentence;  a  dull  roar,  telescoping  into  the  clatter  of 
a  falling  building,  shattered  it.  Almost  immediately 
away  on  their  right  a  red  flame  leapt  into  the  sky; 
it  subsided,  but  a  broad  glow,  hinting  unmentionable 
cruelties,  remained. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  muttered  Iris. 

"And  you,  too,  claim  Him,"  whispered  the  Rev- 
erend John  to  himself.  She  did  not  catch  what  he 
said,  but  she  heard  him  speaking. 

"And  you,"  she  said;  "aren't  you  afraid?" 

The  old  man  nearly  blushed. 

"I  am  almost  ashamed  to  say,"  he  replied,  "that 
137 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

I    am   not.      But,   then,    I   am   an   old  man,    and 

death " 

Another  crash  cut  into  his  sentence. 

"Yes?"  she  said. 

"I  sometimes  think,"  he  went  on  enigmatically, 
"that  it  is  a  good  thing  that  the  young  don't  see  what 
a  very  little  thing  death  is.  It  would  be  terrible," 
he  added,  "if  you  were  not  afraid." 

She  shivered  a  little  and  laughed,  her  eyes  on  the 

red  glow. 

"What  about  the  matinee?"  she  asked. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  leave  it  to  you — you  are  quite 
capable  of  deciding  whether  it's  worth  while  doing 
the  naughty  recitation  or  not." 

"I  think  it  is,"  she  cried  defiantly. 

"Then  you  ought  to  do  it,"  he  replied,  and  catch- 
ing his  eye  she  was  surprised  to  see  that  he  was  speak- 
ing seriously. 

And  she  wondered  still  more  later  on  when  she 
remembered  that  at  that  moment  they  were  both, 
quite  possibly,  on  the  edge  of  being  blown  straight 
out  of  life. 


138 


CHAPTER  XII 

CHARITY  MATINEE  IDOLS 

SHE  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Andrea  describing  the 
night's  experiences,  but  tore  it  up  when  she  realised 
that  for  him  this  sort  of  thing  must  be  a  common- 
place. An  explosion  such  as  she  had  heard  on  the 
vicar's  balcony  might  kill  him.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  seriously  entertained  this  proposition. 
Andrea  might  not  come  back  to  her.  With  a  kind  of 
fear  she  began  to  wonder  whether  she  really  cared 
—any  more  than  at  the  death  of  a  dear  friend.  A 
curious  twist  in  her  mind  made  her  shut  the  door 
to  be  private  with  this  rather  terrible  idea.  She 
turned  it  over  all  ways. 

Did  she  love  him?  And  if  she  only  loved  him  as 
she  had  told  him,  was  that  giving  marriage  a  chance? 
Mrs.  Cumbers,  for  instance — that  sort  of  thing  was 
really  the  basis  on  which  a  marriage  was  possible. 
She  felt  she  had  been  loving  the  big  Russian  in  pic- 
tures, as  it  were — as  if  she  knew  him  only  as  a  series 
of  photographs  in  different  poses.  Her  mind,  re- 
calling him,  recalled  only  his  handsome  face — his 
great  presence,  his  strength.  She  remembered  read- 
ing m  books  that  lovers  recalled  mostly,  little  ways, 

139 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

little  tricks  of  character,  little  sympathetic  gestures. 
Had  Andrea  none  of  these,  or  had  she  never  looked 
for  them?  Was  he  really  only  a  photograph  to  her? 

With  a  sudden  gust  of  irritation  she  swept  these 
ideas  from  her  mind.  It  did  not  matter,  she  thought, 
so  long  as  they  made  each  other  happy.  The  old 
clergyman  was  to  blame  for  this  self-analysis,  and, 
after  all,  his  was  a  very  circumscribed  existence;  you 
can't  just  make  a  set  of  rules  for  life. 

She  decided  as  she  played  with  her  hair  opposite 
the  mirror  that  all  these  disturbing  thoughts  were 
the  outcome  of  being  away  from  her  element.  How 
Andrea  would  roar  with  laughter,  for  instance,  at 
the  bare  idea  of  her  being  of  less  importance  than 
Mrs.  Cumbers !  And  Andrea  knew  the  big  world. 

The  maid  opened  the  door  and  announced  the  ar- 
rival of  Tristram.  Iris  chuckled  and  gave  orders 
that  he  was  to  be  shown  up.  He  came  in  as  a  private 
in  an  infantry  regiment,  and  took  Iris  off  her  guard. 
She  laughed  unrestrainedly  as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "you  do  look  funny!  And  isn't 
your  father  pleased  now  they've  cut  your  hair.  It 
would  never  have  been  done  otherwise — unless  he'd 
sent  you  to  prison." 

Tristram  blushed. 

"They  have  sent  me  to  prison,"  he  muttered. 

She  was  sorry. 

"Are  you  an  unhappy  warrior  then?"  she  asked 
softly.  After  all,  it  did  seem  a  shame  to  expect  this 

140 


CHARITY  MATINEE  IDOLS 

quick-change  work  of  the  untidy  romanticist.     Hs 
caught  all  the  old  witchery  of  her  voice. 

"Oh,  Iris,"  he  said,  "I — I  know  you  don't  care 
for  me;  sometimes  I  believe  you  laugh  at  me;  but"— ^ 
he  straightened  himself  up — "I  have  the  right  to 
adore  you,  and  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that — I'm 
crossing — next  week." 

She  nodded  and,  merely  to  fill  in  the  silence,  he 
went  on. 

"I  had  an  idea  you  might  think  I'd  got  more " 

He  hesitated. 

"Guts?"  she  supplied  unhesitatingly. 

"There  you  are,"  he  cried  in  a  sort  of  despair  at 
her  fascination;  "no  other  woman  could  have  said 
that  without  making  one  scrimp." 

She  laughed. 

"It's  a  good  word,"  she  said,  "part  of  what  was 
your  Merrie  England!" 

"I  wish  I  believed  more  in  the  Merrie  England 
idea,"  he  muttered,  "that  would  be  a  ripping  thing 
to  suffer  for."  He  looked  up.  "And  I  do  suffer," 
he  added;  "I  seem  to  suffer  hells  which  other  fellows 
miss;  I  mean  things  like  putting  out  all  one's  kit  in 
front  of  everyone  for  the  officer  to  inspect — that  sort 
of  thing;  I  feel  kind  of  degraded.  And  yet,"  he 
went  on,  "there's  an  'Honourable'  in  our  platoon,  and 
he  doesn't  care  a  damn." 

"Oh,"  she  laughed  again,  "you're  improving; 
you've  said  hell  and  damn  in  the  last  ten  seconds !" 

"There  you  are,"  he  protested,  "the  polish  gets 
141 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

knocked  off  one's  soul."  He  picked  up  his  hat.  "I 
oughtn't  to  have  come  in,"  he  said,  "but — I  suppose 
I'm  awfully  weak — I  felt  I  couldn't  go  without  see- 
ing you  again." 

She  felt  childishly  pleased  and  ashamed  of  being 
pleased  at  the  same  time.  Yet  it  was  not  like  Iris 
to  be  ashamed. 

"I  hope  you'll  have  the  best  of  luck,"  she  said. 

"That  means  a  cushy  wound,"  he  returned  gloom- 
ily, and  then  hastily  corrected  his  slang.  "I  mean  one 
that  brings  you  home  but  isn't  serious." 

She  went  out  with  him  as  far  as  the  front  door. 

"If  you  ever  do  think  of  me,"  he  said,  "you  can 
think  of  me  in  a  frightful  funk — being  sick!"  And 
with  a  slight  smile  he  vanished  down  the  path.  It 
happened  that  Mary  Cumbers,  that  very  ordinary- 
looking  mother,  was  passing  at  the  moment.  She 
-aught  Iris's  eye  and  smiled — then  she  turned  a  beam- 
ing countenance  towards  her  son,  who  was  crossing 
next  week. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  thought  Iris  to  herself,  back  in  the 
little  room  with  the  grape-coloured  curtains,  "that 
those  two  are  not  braver  than  Andrea  1"  And  then 
she  laughed  because,  of  course,  this  was  absurd. 

She  went  upstairs  to  make  her  toilet,  fully  an  hour 
before  the  matinee  committee  meeting. 

Miss  Figgis  had  lent  her  drawing-room  for  the 
occasion.  She  was  forty-eight  years  old  and  possessed 
a  local  reputation  for  being  always  "bright."  Her 
ignorance  on  all  subjects  was  stupendous  and  her  con- 

142 


CHARITY  MATINEE  IDOLS 

versation  puerile — all  of  which,  I  daresay,  she  knew 
well  enough  herself,  and  only  babbled  and  giggled  in 
her  interminable  way  because  that  fearful  brightness 
was  expected  of  her.  A  very  ordinary  character, 
such  as  are  dotted  all  over  the  world  in  little  lonely 
homes  in  suburbs  and  cathedral  cities;  their  houses 
are  filled  with  photographs  in  silver  frames  but  they 
have  no  real  friends,  and  when  they  die  a  married 
sister  or  a  cousin  appears  from  nowhere,  in  black 
that  has  been  used  before,  and  sees  them  into  the 
churchyard  in  time  to  catch  the  last  train  home.  No- 
body guessed  that  Miss  Figgis  sometimes  slept  at 
night  with  a  towel  rolled  up  in  her  arms.  In  the  dark 
and  when  you  are  half  asleep  it  is  not  difficult  to 
imagine  that  there  is  a  baby  lying  there — your  baby 
— dependent  on  your  arms  and  the  warmth  of  your 
body.  By  some  curious  rule  of  contraries  that  towel 
helped  Miss  Figgis  a  great  deal  in  her  next  day's 
brightness. 

There  she  was,  counting  cups  on  a  tea-tray  in  the 
corner  of  the  drawing-room  and  making  a  running 
fire  of  conversation  over  her  shoulder. 

A  small  sour-looking  old  man  stood  on  the  hearth- 
rug, clenching  and  unclenching  his  knobbly  fingers  in 
a  way  that  gave  one  a  curious  feeling  that  he  would 
like  to  have  them  at  somebody's  throat.  And  per- 
haps this  was  true.  He  was  a  cruel  old  man,  rough, 
rude,  and  like  so  many  undersized  creatures — over- 
bearing. Sir  George  Osser  was  his  name,  and  his 
grandfather  had  acquired  the  baronetcy  by  honest 

143 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

toil.  His  father,  a  lesser  man,  had  not  been  able 
to  squander  the  whole  of  his  vast  fortune  and  had 
left  to  his  son  a  weak  constitution  and  enough  money 
to  ensure  an  idle  existence. 

Ferdinand  Madders  was  astride  a  chair,  demon- 
strating to  Mrs.  Douglas  the  right  way  to  sit  a 
horse;  curiously  enough,  this  is  far  more  easily  done 
upon  a  chair  than  upon  a  horse. 

The  Reverend  John  had  not  arrived.  Immediately 
she  entered  the  room  Iris  experienced  that  feeling 
of  wild  irritation  and  the  desire  to  do  something  out- 
,  rageous  which  had  first  animated  her  when  she  called 
on  Henry  Cumbers.  Miss  Figgis's  bright  welcome 
and  a  silly  joke  that  she  made  about  Iris  being  a 
"pro"  only  served  to  make  her  more  determined  than 
ever  to  scare  or  shock  the  company  into  some  sort 
of  vitality. 

"Well,"  came  the  thin  staccato  voice  of  Sir  George, 
"why  can't  we  do  something?" 

"We're  waiting  for  the  vicar,  Sir  George,"  an- 
swered Miss  Figgis.  "Somebody  will  have  to  have 
an  odd  cup,"  she  giggled,  and  Iris  noticed  that  the 
old  man's  fingers  gripped  at  nothing  with  an  even 
fiercer  intensity.  His  nerves  were  evidently  all  to 
pieces. 

Mrs.  Douglas  came  forward  from  the  window — 
a  tall,  thin  woman  who  had,  quite  by  accident,  made 
a  reputation  for  intellectual  activity  by  murmuring 
at  a  tea  party  that  there  "was  something  to  be  said 
for  Atheism."  Somebody  later  had  referred  to  the 

144 


CHARITY  MATINEE  IDOLS 

"clever"  Mrs.  Douglas,  and  after  that  she  had  got 
into  the  habit  of  shutting  herself  suddenly  into  her 
bedroom  for  an  hour,  saying  that  "something  had 
come  to  her,"  and  she  must  not  be  disturbed  because 
she  would  be  writing.  Her  husband  had  been 
drowned  in  a  South  American  river,  whither  he  had 
gone  to  find  out  whether  a  scheme  for  making  certain 
gaseous  mud  into  briquettes  was  feasible.  After 
his  death  Mrs.  Douglas  took  to  calling  this  com- 
mercial fiasco  "the  call  of  the  wild,"  and  actually  suc- 
ceeded in  building  round  the  deceased  speculator  an 
atmosphere  of  adventure  and  romance. 

"I  was  rehearsing  yesterday  my  little  play,"  she 
began ;  "it  went  very  well,  considering  all  things.  But 
Joyce  Sadler  is  rather  a  stick,  you  know.  She  has  no 
atmosphere.  It's  so  essential,  don't  you  think?" 

Miss  Figgis  turned  to  Iris. 

"That's  your  department,"  she  said,  "you've  been 
on  the  stage!" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Russian  automatically,  "you 
want  atmosphere." 

"I  want,"  went  on  Mrs.  Douglas,  "so  much  more 
than  that  girl  can  give  me  in  the  voice  I  When  she 
says  that  final  line,  'Oh,  if  I  could  see  my  soul  I 
Would  I  know  it?  Should  I  grasp  it?',  I  want  her 
to  express  all  the  yearning,  the  almost  hypersensitive 
longing  for  self-analysis  of  a  young  girl." 

The  voice  of  Sir  George  Osser  broke  in. 

"Rubbish!"  he  said.  "Excuse  an  old  man's 
straight  language,  but  you're  talking  rubbish !  What 

H5 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

you  want  to  do  is  to  make  'em  laugh — make  'em  cry 
with  laughter.  Make  'em  ill  with  it.  Hypersensitive 
fiddlesticks!"  His  fingers  were  like  eels  twisting  in 
the  air — and  his  eyes  glittered.  He  knew  he  had 
hurt  her. 

"It's  easy  to  see,  Sir  George,  that  you  have  no  feel- 
ing for  literature !"  she  said. 

"I  daresay,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  come  of  a  race 
of  sensible  men.  Where's  Heslop?  It's  confounded- 
ly hot  in  this  room,  Miss  Figgis !" 

That  lady  apologised  and  opened  the  window.  Iris 
found  herself  wondering  why  it  was  that  the  rude  old 
fellow  could  dominate  these  people.  She  was  inter- 
ested to  see  how  the  Reverend  John  would  deal  with 
him.  A  maid  brought  in  the  tea  and  Miss  Figgis 
presided,  rapidly  firing  off  a  score  or  so  of  thin  but 
lady-like  witticisms  to  cover  Mrs.  Douglas's  ruffled 
feelings. 

"Tea !"  snapped  Sir  George,  "no.  I  never  drink 
it.  With  your  leave  I'll  smoke  a  cigar." 

"Oh,  do,"  Said  Miss  Figgis,  "do." 

He  took  a  large  case  from  his  pockets  and  opened 
it. 

"I  hate  cigars,"  said  Iris,  speaking  to  a  bronze 
model  of  the  Marble  Arch  on  the  sideboard.  "The 
smell  always  gives  me  a  headache.  It's  a  disgusting 
habit,  I  think." 

Sir  George  shut  the  case  with  a  snap,  and  put  it 
back  in  his  pocket.  His  spare  body  seemed  to  writhe 
with  anger.  What  he  was  going  to  say  no  one  will 

146 


CHARITY  MATINEE  IDOLS 

ever  know,  for  at  this  moment  the  vicar  was  an- 
nounced. 

What  the  old  baronet  actually  said  was  "Late, 
Heslop,"  in  his  very  surliest  tones.  The  Reverend 
John  regarded  him  benignly. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  caressing  voice,  "I  owe  very 
many  apologies  to  my  hostess." 

Iris  noticed  the  faintest  possible  stress  upon  the  last 
three  words,  and  looking  across  at  the  old  baronet 
she  saw  that  he  had  noticed  it  too.  None  of  the 
world's  little  contretemps  seemed  beyond  the  powers 
of  this  old  gentleman.  He  was,  she  made  up  her 
mind,  the  ideal  clergyman.  Somehow,  she  thought,  it 
was  a  pity  that  he  could  not  have  mattered  a  great 
deal  more  than  he  did. 

"You  ought  to  have  been  a  diplomat,"  she  whis- 
pered, as  he  crossed  her  on  his  way  to  Miss  Figgis. 

"No — no,"  he  answered,  "I  have  not  sufficient  in- 
telligence to  be  consistently  a  humbug!" 

She  watched  him  making  kindly  and  quite  trivial 
conversation  with  his  hostess,  making  her  think  she 
was  really  a  "grand  dame" — mistress  of  a  salon — • 
centre  of  a  "circle" — anything  and  everything  but 
what  she  was — an  ineffectually  good  woman. 

The  magic  of  the  man  was  undeniable;  Sir  George 
Osser  was  silent;  his  fingers  whirled  less  like  the  locks 
of  Medusa,  and  more  like  a  nervous  human  being. 
Even  Ferdinand  Madders  was  behaving  like  a  gentle- 
man with  a  plate  of  fancy  biscuits  in  the  corner. 

Tea  over,  the  business  of  the  afternoon  started. 
147 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

kThe  Reverend  John,  strictly  impartial,  sat  at  the  head 
of  the  table  with  the  proposed  programme  in  his 
hand.  He  ran  through  the  items,  each  of  which  was 
solemnly  passed  by  the  committee  with  all  the  weight 
of  a  cabinet  meeting. 

"No.  9,"  he  said  gravely,  "Miss  Bessfield:  Amer- 
ican dance — the  Slinky  Slide."  He  paused  for  the 
usual  approbation.  Ferdinand  Madders  was  on  the 
point  of  saying  "splendid"  (he  said  this  to  every 
proposal)  when  he  caught  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Douglas, 
and  saw  that  there  were  breakers  ahead.  He  pre- 
tended to  study  his  programme  intensely. 

"I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  in  a  voice  like  the 
beginning  of  a  hail  storm,  "that  that  item  is  nowhere 
icar  my  little  play." 

"I  gather  from  my  list,"  said  the  Reverend  John, 
"that  it  is  first  cousin,  twice  removed  1" 

"But  first  cousin,  all  the  same,"  murmured  Iris 
to  herself.  Mrs.  Douglas  crinkled  her  papers 
nervously. 

"It  savours  to  me  of  revue,"  she  said,  her  lips  be- 
coming a  tense  wire. 

Sir  George  Osser  gave  a  hoarse  guffaw. 

"Well,  thank  God!"  he  said,  "there  will  be  some- 
thing for  people  to  laugh  at." 

Mrs.  Douglas  became  more  nervous  than  ever. 

"I — I  feel,"  she  began,  "that  a — a  committee  com- 
posed of — that  is  to  say,  constituted  as "  Her 

parliamentary  manner  deserted  her  at  this  point. 
"What  I  mean  is,"  she  finished  in  a  rush,  "that  we 

148 


CHARITY  MATINEE  IDOLS 

can't   have   anything   like   revue   in  the   entertain- 
ment." 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  Reverend  John  politely. 

"Well,"  returned  the  indignant  lady,  "it  is  surely 
not  very  dignified!" 

"I  agree,"  he  returned,  "that  revue  is  not  digni- 
fied; but  I  doubt  whether  the  happiest  moments  of 
human  beings  are  ever  dignified." 

"Surely,"  pursued  the  lady,  who  had  written  "In 
Quest  of  Her  Soul,"  "you  do  not  wish  the  entertain- 
ment to  become  vulgar,  Mr.  Heslop?  .  .  .  You  do 
not  want  a  lot  of  common  people  laughing  at  com- 
mon jokes?" 

The  old  man  smiled. 

"I  want — we  all  want,"  he  said,  "a  great  deal  of 
money  for  the  Red  Cross,  whose  bandages  are  wrapt 
round  some  very  low-class  people,  I  believe  I" 

"Hear,  hear!"  said  Sir  George  Osser,  beaming 
with  pleasure  at  the  discomfiture  of  Mrs.  Douglas. 
"It's  no  use  being  lady-like  in  war-time  1" 

"Exactly,"  answered  the  Reverend  John;  "no 
more  use  than  being  war-like  in  a  drawing-room!" 

The  old  baronet  glued  his  eyes  to  his  paper;  his 
fingers  were  like  rubber  strands  in  a  furnace. 

Mrs.  Douglas  was  determined  to  object  to  this 
item  of  the  programme,  and  something  told  her  she 
must  rise  to  make  her  statement.  She  rose,  trembling 
violently.  Iris  was  dumb  with  sheer  humour  of  the 
picture. 

149 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"I  beg  to  propose,"  said  Mrs,  Douglas,  "that  this 
item  be  hereby  deleted !" 

The  vicar's  eyes  twinkled  like  live  coals,  but  he 
made  no  sign. 

"The  motion  is  put  to  the  committee,"  he  said. 
"Those  in  favour  will  please  signify  in  the  usual 
way." 

Madders,  who  was  going  to  a  tennis  party  of  Mrs. 
Douglas's  the  following  week,  held  up  his  hand;  Miss 
Figgis,  who  always  followed  at  once  the  line  that 
her  next-door  neighbour  took,  held  up  hers  also. 

"As  chairman,"  said  the  vicar,  "I  refuse  to  vote 
on  the  question;  the  motion  is  therefore  carried!" 

Mrs.  Douglas  leant  back  in  her  chair  with  the  ex- 
pression which  the  Iron  Duke  ought  to  have  worn 
after  Waterloo;  Sir  George  Osser  was  heard  to 
mutter  "damned  nonsensical  rubbish,"  after  which 
he  took  no  notice  of  the  proceedings  for  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon,  an  attitude  which,  as  the  Reverend 
John  said  to  Iris  afterwards,  at  least  had  the  merit 
of  showing  a  definite  point  of  view. 

Things  went  on  after  this  with  a  comparative 
smoothness.  To  her  great  disappointment  Iris's 
French  recitation  was  passed  without  any  opposition 
whatever.  This  was  partly  because  no  one  knew  the 
language  (although  everyone  suspected  it),  and 
partly  because  on  these  occasions,  once  there  has 
been  a  disagreement,  everything  that  follows  is  ac- 
cepted, whatever  its  merits. 

Iris  and  the  Vicar  walked  back  together. 
150 


"Mrs.  Douglas,"  she  burst  out  all  of  a  sudden, 
"makes  me  sick!" 

"I  often  feel,"  answered  the  Reverend  John,  "that 
God  has  designed  some  people  merely  as  emetics." 

"And  the  others?"  she  queried. 

"The  world's  food,"  he  answered  laconically.  "It 
is  our  job  to  be  digested.  If  you  are  thrown  up  by 
the  world,  you  have  failed — just  like  a  lobster  salad, 
when  one  has  taken  no  exercise." 

"I  don't  like  being  compared  to  a  lobster  salad," 
she  protested. 

"You  might  do  worse,"  he  returned.  "I  used  to 
spend  many  an  inspired  half-hour  at  Scot's  when  I 
was  young." 

Even  to  Iris  his  jest  and  his  earnest  were  a  little 
too  kaleidoscopic.  At  the  parting  of  their  ways  she 
turned  to  him  seriously. 

"I'm  going  to  do  that  naughty  recitation,"  she 
said. 

"Certainly  I"  he  replied.  "Has  it  not  been  passed 
by  our  committee?" 

If  he  smiled  when  they  parted  she  did  not  notice 
it;  in  fact,  the  non-existence  of  that  smile  cost  her 
half  an  hour  of  her  usual  sleep.  A  quaint  man — a 
very  quaint  man !  An  Idealist — a  clergyman !  And 
yet  "a  fellow  of  infinite  jest !"  She  smoked  a  thought- 
ful cigarette  when  she  got  home. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  TIME  WHICH  WAS  OUT  OF  JOINT 

HENRY  CUMBERS  had  had  a  long  and  trying  day.  At 
a  ridiculously  early  hour  he  had  stood,  shivering  and 
soulless,  at  a  London  terminus  and  watched  a  long 
train  slide  away  with  his  son  on  board.  As  the  last 
carriage  disappeared  he  felt  for  the  first  time  how 
little  he  was  master  of  his  own  fate.  He  had  a  con- 
fused remembrance  of  murmuring  inadequate  com- 
fort into  Mary's  ear — a  cup  of  horrible  coffee  at  a 
"good  pull-up" — a  raging  sense  of  the  cruelty  of  Lon- 
don in  the  early  morning  and  a  desire  to  get  to  th& 
office  as  soon  as  possible.  He  remembered  Mary's 
last  words  as  he  put  her  into  the  Tube:  "Isn't  it 
funny  everything  going  on  just  the  same?" 

Well,  that  was  a  woman's  point  of  view,  he  sup- 
posed— they  were  always  their  own  universe. 

There  was  a  big  rush  on  at  the  office  that  day  and 
Henry  was  vaguely  thankful  for  this.  Now  he  was 
sitting  in  his  little  garden  turning  things  over  in  his 
mind.  It  struck  him  as  curious  that  when  he  had 
wanted  to  say  proudly  to  Jenner,  the  sub-manager: 
"My  boy  crossed  to-day,"  he  found  it  impossible. 
For  some  ridiculous  reason  it  seemed  a  private  affair. 

152 


TIME  WHICH  WAS  OUT  OF  JOINT 

He  struck  a  match  and  lit  his  pipe. 
"World's  a  queer  place,"  he  said  aloud.     "I'm 
bothered  if  I  can  get  the  hang  of  it." 

Tristram  had  been  the  first  big  thrill  in  Henry's 
life.  Quite  vividly,  as  if  it  had  been  last  night,  he 
could  remember  Mary  turning  over  on  her  pillow 
and  whispering  to  him  of  the  coming  baby.  And  all 
he  could  say  was  "By  George !"  That  was  a  clever 
remark,  he  thought  to  himself  when  he  was  feeling 
that  he  could  burst  with  pride,  when  he  would  not 
have  changed  places  with  a  single  human  being!  He 
remembered  its  inadequacy  with  a  smile.  How  dif- 
ferent his  child  was  going  to  be  from  any  other! 
What  a  genius !  What  a  giant ! 

Later  on,  after  his  eighth  birthday,  Tristram  had 
become    rather   a    disappointment.      He    somehow 
seemed  to  get  like  other  people's  children  all  in  a 
moment.    Rather  irritating;  and  then  these  last  two 
years  when  he  wouldn't  cut  his  hair— and  really  he'd 
been  awfully  queer  about  the  war. 
Why  on  earth  the  East  Kents? 
At  this  point  in  his  ruminations  Mary  came  out 
of  the  house.    She  sat  beside  him  on  the  little  wooden 
seat,  and  for  a  few  moments  neither  spoke. 
Then  she  turned. 

"Henry,"  she  said,  "which  direction  is  France 
from  here?" 

"Our  house  faces  north,"  he  began,  then  fell  to 
muttering  and  drawing  on  the  back  of  an  envelope. 
At  last  he  pointed  over  the  corner  of  the  box-hedge. 

153 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"It's  somewhere  overe  there,"  he  said. 

Mary  looked  in  the  direction  he  showed  her  for 
some  moments  without  speaking. 

"Henry,"  she  said  suddenly,  "do  you  think  you 
could  find  me  something  to  do— some  work,  I 
mean?" 

"Work?" 

"Yes — it's  not  so  bad  for  you,  dear.  You've  the 
office — and  lots  of  things  you've  got  to  do.  I  feel 
I  can't  sit  about  here  all  day — thinking  about  Tris- 
tram!" 

"No,"  said  Henry  slowly,  "I  see  what  you  mean. 
We  must  think  about  it."  He  realised  that  he  had 
fallen  into  that  too  frequent  compromise  of  marriage 
where  a  man  begins  to  regard  his  wife  as  a  bad 
habit  which  he  is  too  old  to  get  out  of.  He  remem- 
bered with  a  start  that  he  really  loved  Mary,  and 
he  took  her  hand  awkwardly.  "My  poor  darling," 
he  said. 

She  smiled  and  drew  his  arm  gently  round  her 
waist. 

"This  is  how  we  used  to  sit  at  Bognor — on  our 
honeymoon.  Do  you  remember?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  he  answered,  with  a  disturbing 
sense  of  having  progressed  since  those  vulgar  days. 

"You  wore  white  flannels  and  a  blue  and  yellow 
blazer.  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  that  blazer?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

"I  do,"  she  returned,  "it's  in  my  bottom  drawer. 
I  don't  care  what  people  say  about  sentiment,  Henry. 

154 


TIME  WHICH  WAS  OUT  OF  JOINT 

I  think  it's — it's  perfectly  snobbish  to  be  ashamed  of 
loving  people." 

"But  why  that  blazer?" 

"It  was  so  gay  and  young — I  thought  of  giving 
it  to  Tristram,  but  he  said  the  colours  jarred  on  him, 
so— so  I  just  didn't."  She  looked  away  again  over 
that  corner  of  the  box-hedge  beyond  which  that  same 
boy  on  whom  the  colours  of  the  blazer  had  jarred, 
was  going  to  see  some  pictures  infinitely  less  artistic 
but  just  as  real ! 

"Oh,  Henry!"  she  gasped  suddenly,  "how  can 
anyone  make  a  war?" 

"No  one  man  could  make  a  war,"  he  returned, 
"not  if  he  had  any  imagination." 

"Because,"  added  Mary,  "in  his  mind's  eye  he'd 
see  the  battlefield  and  the  dead  and  the  maimed  and 
the  dying!" 

"No,"  said  Henry,  with  one  of  his  rare  bursts  of 
intuition,  "because  he  would  see  people  like  us  sitting 
here  and — just  sitting  here!  It's  not  the  dead  or 
the  wounded  he'd  have  nightmares  about — it's  the 
people  who'd  have  died  twenty  times,  not  only  for 
their  lives  but  even  for  their  happiness !" 

"Henry  dear,"  she  asked,  "do  you  really  feel  as 
much  as  all  that?" 

"Fathers  don't  talk,"  he  muttered  vaguely;  "it's 
not  expected  of  'em." 

"All  the  same,"  she  said,  "it's  different  for  a 
mother;  of  course  you  can't  understand  that." 

"Why  shouldn't  I   understand  it?"   said  Henry 

155 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

irritably.  "Do  you  think  men  don't  know  that  much 
about  their  children?  The  man  is  at  G.H.Q.,  but  it's 
the  wife  who  goes  over  the  top."  It  came  naturally 
to  him  now  to  talk  Army  talk.  "A  married  man 
starts  as  his  wife's  friend — but  when  the  children 
come  he  only  ranks  as  an  accomplice !" 

Mary  squeezed  his  hand  and  rose. 

"Are  you  coming  up  soon,  dear?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  finish  my  pipe,"  he  returned.  She 
turned  back  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  and  saw  the 
glow  of  his  match. 

"I  wonder,"  she  thought  to  herself,  as  she  climbed 
the  stairs,  "why  he  so  often  behaves  like  a  fool,  when 

really "  She  lost  herself  in  the  problem  while  she 

undressed.  So  Pagan  was  she  in  essence,  that  her 
prayers  from  that  night  onward  were  not  said  at  her 
bedside  as  usual,  but  at  the  window,  facing  that  cor- 
ner of  the  box-hedge  which  Henry  had  said  was  the 
direction  in  which  France  lay. 

Iris  was  in  a  merry  mood  when  she  returned  home 
that  evening.  A  friend  of  Andrea,  who  was  attached 
to  the  Russian  Embassy  in  London  had  taken  her  out 
to  dinner,  and  she  had  recaptured  for  an  hour  or 
two  a  scent  of  the  old  life  which  she  loved  so  well. 
He  had  been  an  amusing  young  man,  full  of  the  latest 
gossip  from  the  Middle  East,  and,  which  was  more 
to  the  point,  instantly  enslaved  by  the  devices  of  Iris. 
She  had  also  had  an  amusing  letter  from  Andrea, 
written,  had  she  only  known,  under  circumstances  of 
the  greatest  discomfort  and  danger;  and  this  letter, 

156 


TIME  WHICH  WAS  OUT  OF  JOINT 

coupled  with  her  evening's  success,  had  made  her 
forget  the  misgivings  she  had  lately  entertained  as 
to  her  complete  fittedness  to  conquer  the  inhabited 
globe ;  it  was  obvious  surely,  with  two  male  creatures 
hanging  on  her  every  whim,  that  there  was  a  big 
place  in  the  world  for  such  a  feminine  Buonaparte? 
At  her  gate  she  sniffed  the  air  of  the  summer  night 
appreciatively.  A  walk  round  the  garden  and  a 
cigarette  before  going  to  bed  appeared  a  desirable 
thing.  She  lit  a  cigarette  and  went  through  to  the 
little  plot  of  flowers  behind  the  house.  Strolling  up 
the  side  of  the  low  hedge,  she  caught  the  fitful  glow 
of  Henry's  pipe  as  he  sat  brooding  at  the  end  of  his 
garden.  How  small  his  life  was,  she  thought,  how 
little  he  mattered — how  little  he  had  seen!  The 
laughter,  the  lights,  the  luxurious  food  and  the 
bubbling  wine  which  she  had  just  left.  She  supposed 
this  ridiculous  little  man  would  condemn  it  all,  as 
extravagant  and  unlicensed — even  wicked ! 

And  so  I  dare  say  he  would,  for  just  as  it  is  human 
nature  to  criticise  most  severely  the  sins  which  we 
do  not  commit  ourselves,  so  it  is  equally  natural  to 
condemn  other  people's  luxuries.  We  all  have  heard 
Brown,  who  has  lost  his  two  hundred  a  year  at 
bridge  regularly  for  the  last  quarter  of  a  century, 
deprecating,  on  his  committee  for  the  Betterment  of 
the  Poor,  the  thriftlessnes  of  Mrs.  Jones,  whose  rent 
was  not  forthcoming,  and  who  had  been  proven  be- 
yond a  shadow  of  doubt  to  have  filled  the  stocking 
of  Jones  Junior  with  penny  toys  on  Christmas  Ev,e. 

157 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"The  Happy  Mean,"  cries  Aristotle,  "is  the  summum 
bonum  of  this  world,"  but  he  omitted  to  give  a  satis- 
factory definition  of  what  this  may  be,  and  if  he  had 
had  to  publish  his  works  on  the  royalty  system,  I 
fear  he  would  have  been  hard  put  to  it  for  his  bread 
and  butter.  But  Iris  was  not  thinking  nearly  so 
philosophically  when  she  leant  over  the  hedge  and 
cried  "Hullo,  Mr.  Cumbers!  Not  in  bed?"  in  the 
most  impertinent  way  possible.  All  that  she  ex- 
perienced was  an  uncontrollable  desire  for  a  passage 
of  arms  with  her  neighbour,  as  a  final  night-cap  be- 
fore she  herself  put  her  head  on  the  pillow  and  slept 
the  sleep  of — not  perhaps  the  just — but  at  any  rate 
the  unprejudiced. 

Henry  jumped,  as  if  someone  had  stuck  a  pin  into 
him  from  behind.  Then  imagining,  quite  wrongly, 
that  the  darkness  had  hidden  his  fright  from  the  Rus- 
sian, he  made  a  great  effort  at  dignity. 

"I  find  the  night  air  refreshing  after  a  hard  day 
In  the  city,"  he  said  coldly. 

"I  expect  it  is,"  assented  Iris,  and  then,  with  a  mis- 
chievous note  of  banter,  "I  hope  you  are  coming  to 
the  matinee  on  the  twenty-third?" 

Henry  Cumbers  felt  a  sort  of  flush  of  distaste 
through  his  whole  system.  He  did  not  pause  to  think 
that  she  could  not  possibly  have  known  how  she  had 
broken  in  upon  one  of  the  few  big  emotional  mo- 
ments of  his  life.  That  little  talk  with  Mary — that 
moment  when  she  drew  his  arm  round  her  waist — 
the  blazer — the  whole  little  sentimental  scene  which 

158 


TIME  WHICH  WAS  OUT  OF  JOINT 

under  ordinary  circumstances  would  have  irritated 
the  "reserve"  which  he  cultivated  so  sedulously,  had 
in  the  light  of  Tristram's  departure  for  "over  there," 
taken  on  an  atmosphere  which  was  more  sacred  than 
anything  the  churchwarden  was  wont  to  experience 
during  his  duties  in  the  House  of  God.  Iris  had  un- 
wittingly committed  sacrilege. 

"I  do  not  often,"  he  said  in  icy  tones,  "have  time 
for  frivolity."  And  as  he  walked  down  the  garden 
path  he  felt  suddenly  that  he  would  tell  her  the  big 
thing  that  had  happened  to  him  that  day.  She  ought 
to  know  how  much  some  people  were  giving.  .  .  . 
He  turned  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  and  spoke 
over  his  shoulder  in  as  casual  a  voice  as  he  could 
command,  "My  son,  Tristram,  crossed  to  France 
this  morning." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Russian,  "he  told  me  he  was 
going." 

The  sudden  check  in  Henry  Cumbers'  walk  was 
not  noticeable;  it  simply  appeared  as  if  he  had 
ignored  the  remark.  For  all  that,  Mary  found  him  a 
most  restless  bedfellow,  even  for  one  who  was  not 
overcomposed  for  sleep  herself. 

Tristram  had  told  that  woman !  Perhaps  before 
he  had  told  his  own  parents!  The  idea  tormented 
his  father.  Cumbers  was  one  of  those  men  who  are 
foolish  enough  to  map  out  their  sons'  lives — so  much 
possible  income,  so  many  children,  so  many  recrea- 
tions— a  circulating  library,  four  or  five  theatres  in 
the  year,  but  first,  rent,  water  rate,  gas 

159 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

That  is  a  vague  expression  of  the  method  with 
which  Henry  had  regarded  Tristram's  future.  It 
had  always  left  him  with  a  small  pecuniary  margin  at 
the  end  of  the  year,  and  for  many  people,  after  all, 
this  is  a  whole  morality.  Muriel  had  seemed  a  woman 
calculated  to  see  that  this  margin  was  preserved  .  .  . 
and  so  the  engagement  was  permissible.  That  was 
the  general  idea,  and  Henry  Cumbers  was  always  to 
be  the  managing  director  of  his  son's  existence. 

But  this  plan  had  been  knocked  on  the  head;  the 
war,  of  course,  could  not  be  helped,  but  this  absurd 
infatuation !  Henry  would  have  expected  a  son  of 
his  to  be  above  such  nonsense.  Well,  at  least,  he  had 
shown  the  woman  that  he  did  not  propose  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  her.  The  quarrel  was  quite 
definite  now.  He  hoped  she  was  ashamed  of  herself, 
but  could  not  convince  himself  that  this  was  likely. 
His  whole  being  seemed  on  edge  and  he  felt  that  he 
must  vent  his  wrath  on  someone,  or  become 
apoplectic. 

He  woke  up  Mary,  who  was  sleeping  as  silently 
as  a  baby,  and  besought  her  not  to  snore. 

Mary,  who  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  had  been 
doing  nothing  of  the  sort,  but  who  had  an  extremely 
good  idea  as  to  the  duties  of  a  wife,  assured  him 
that  she  would  not  offend  again — and  the  mahogany 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece  ticked  on  ironically. 


1 60 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"SHEER  IMPERTINENCE" 

IN  due  course  the  matinee  was  given.  A  terrible 
sense  of  importance,  quite  chilling  in  its  effect,  made 
the  members  of  the  committee  altogether  unap- 
proachable. They  stood  about  in  the  gangways  and 
in  the  promenade  of  the  local  hall  covering  a  sensa- 
tion of  terrified  responsibility  with  that  patronage  of 
familiar  friends  which,  in  committees,  passeth  the 
patronage  of  Empresses. 

The  Reverend  John  occupied  a  box  with  Mrs. 
Douglas  and  her  friends.  The  authoress  of  "In 
Quest  of  Her  Soul"  (who  was  experiencing  the  most 
agonising  pains  over  a  production  that  any  theatrical 
person  could  have  told  her  was  bound  to  be  still- 
born) endeavoured  to  conceal  her  condition  under 
a  running  fire  of  criticisms  of  the  audience.  Looking 
down  into  the  stalls,  a  sensation  which  she  very  sel- 
dom experienced,  she  remarked  that  the  sight  of  peo- 
ple in  the  mass  made  her  despair. 

The  Reverend  John  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  he  said.  "These  people 
could  go  to  a  really  good  show  for  half  the  money, 
and  yet  they  come  here  for  the  sake  of  the  Red  Cross. 

161 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

Personally,  I  think  that  it  is  very  good-natured  of 
them!" 

It  annoyed  Mrs.  Douglas  to  be  told  that  the 
audience  which  was  to  be  privileged  to  witness  the 
first  performance  of  "In  Quest  of  Her  Soul"  was 
"good-natured,"  and  she  relapsed  into  a  kind  of 
neurotic  silence  until  her  play  should  begin — a  con- 
summation which  it  is  very  possible  the  Reverend 
John  had  in  the  back  of  his  mind  when  he  made  the 
remark. 

He  looked  out  of  his  box  upon  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  local  aristocracy,  taking  their  seats;  and, 
as  he  looked,  he  marked  and  noted  in  his  kindly  mind 
the  comely  outspread  before  his  eyes.  There  were 
Mrs.  Wallingford-Jones,  whose  entire  being  was 
wrapped  up  in  her  hyphen;  Mr.  Jugg,  who  gloried  in 
the  noneuphonic  quality  of  his  name  and  used  to 
hold  forth  whenever  possible  on  its  essential  Saxon 
origin  with  a  pride  of  country  which  even  Henry 
Cumbers  would  find  hard  to  beat.  That  Mr.  Jugg's 
mother  had  been  a  Pole  and  his  great-uncle  a  Span- 
iard with  a  dash  of  Moor,  did  not  disturb  this  harm- 
less little  idiosyncrasy  in  the  least.  It  is  always  amus- 
ing to  watch  people  coming  into  a  public  place.  See 
men  and  women  entering  a  restaurant,  for  instance ! 
They  are  all  acting  a  part.  Men  who,  in  their  own 
drawing-room — Putney  or  Grosvenor  Square — are 
able  to  behave  quite  naturally  (or,  at  least,  as  natur- 
ally as  any  collection  of  human  beings  allows  us  to 
behave) — here  experience  a  difficulty  as  to  what  to 

162 


"SHEER  IMPERTINENCE" 

do  with  their  hands,  and  betray  either  an  unusual 
courtesy  towards  their  wives,  or  an  overdone  fa- 
miliarity with  their  surroundings.  They  exhibit  all 
the  faults  of  the  amateur  actor.  Thus  the  audience  is 
often  a  great  deal  more  amusing  than  the  play,  and 
a  first-night  at  a  fashionable  theatre  is  an  absolute 
education  in  follies.  Women  and  men  preening  them- 
selves like  peacocks  in  the  desperate  hope  that  "Lady 
Vi"  of  the  "Morning  Looking-glass"  or  "Mr.  Picca- 
dilly" of  "Bits  and  Pieces"  may  notice  their  clothes 
or  their  monocles,  and  give  them  fame  for  a  day. 
Meanwhile  "Lady  Vi"  is  at  home  in  her  Brixton  bed- 
sitting-room  diligently  making  up  for  the  day  after 
to-morrow  the  titles  she  has  "met"  in  Bond  Street 
yesterday  (when  she  spent  the  day  at  home  with  a 
bad  sick-headache).  "Mr.  Piccadilly,"  at  the  mo- 
ment, is  having  a  glass  of  champagne  with  Miss 
Flossie  Silktights  in  her  dressing-room  at  the  Pan- 
drome  where  the  latest  revue  has  achieved  its  yooth 
performance.  He  will  describe  the  audience  at  that 
night's  problem  play  when  he  gets  back  to  his  flat  in 
the  Charing  Cross  Road  after  a  game  of  billiards  at 
the  club.  "Why  go  to  the  beastly  play?"  he  will  say. 
"I  can  get  a  list  from  the  box-office  of  the  people 
who  were  there — and  if  they  weren't — it  fills  half  a 
column,  doesn't  it?"  And  so  it  does,  and  gives  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  to  those  who  appear  in  the 
honours  list,  and  no  small  profit  to  him  or  her  who 
put  them  there — so  all  is  well. 

And  the   Reverend  John,  looking  down  at  the 
163 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

matinee  audience  (Aldean  McBarry  with  his  theatre 
walking-stick,  the  handle  being  a  jade  hyena  with 
glass  eyes  that  could  not  possibly  fail  to  be  noticed, 
and  Mrs.  Henry  Favershore  who,  on  these  occasions, 
stuck  a  paste  diamond  under  her  left  eye),  and 
thanked  God  for  human  weakness,  which  is  given  to 
us  all  to  counteract  human  sorrow — which  is  divine. 

So  in  due  course  the  curtain  went  up,  and  for 
everyone  under  the  upper  circle  the  serious  business 
of  the  afternoon  had  ceased. 

The  matinee  went  the  way  of  all  such  perform- 
ances. The  applause  was  a  great  deal  too  frequent 
and  too  hearty  to  be  reckoned  sincere,  and  each  per- 
former finished  his  or  her  turn  with  the  conviction 
that  they  ought  to  have  dedicated  their  lives  to  the 
stage. 

"In  Quest  of  Her  Soul"  (thirty-three  minutes  of 
sheer  hysteria)  evoked  a  tornado  of  clapping  from 
stalls  determined  to  uphold  a  reputation  for  enlight- 
enment. Mrs.  Douglas  turned  to  the  Reverend 
John,  her  face  purple  with  excitement,  and  in  a  voice, 
into  which  she  tried  her  very  utmost  to  infuse  the 
contempt  of  genius  for  popular  acclamation,  said: 
"I  think  they  felt  a  little  of  the  idea,  don't  you?" 

With  a  muttered  prayer  for  forgiveness,  the  old 
gentleman  answered  that  he  felt  sure  the  house  had 
thoroughly  appreciated  the  playlet. 

Two  turns  later  Iris  was  to  appear. 

She  came  on  in  front  of  black  velvet  curtains  in  a 
simple  country  frock,  which  nevertheless  somehow 

164 


"SHEER  IMPERTINENCE" 

jerked  Suburbia,  breathless  and  headlong,  to  the 
West-End  stage.  She  caught  the  vicar's  eye,  and 
gave  him  purposely  the  overdeveloped  smile  which 
an  actress  gives  to  a  fellow-professional  whom  she 
sees  in  a  near  box.  The  Reverend  John  revelled  in 
this  naughtiness,  but  his  face  expressed  nothing  what- 
ever. With  his  hands  folded  across  his  waistcoat,  he 
waited  for  her  performance  in  the  most  clerical  man- 
ner of  which  he  was  capable.  But  as  the  Russian 
smiled  over  the  floats  to  the  dark  cavern  beyond,  she 
knew  that  he  had  seen  and  that  he  was  amused.  She 
brought  her  hands  together  in  the  traditional  pose 
of  the  unsophisticated  village  maiden,  cocked  her 
head  a  little  on  one  side,  gave  the  slightest  possible 
wriggle  of  the  shoulders,  and  announced  the  title  of 
her  recitation. 

"Monologue  d'une  femme  mariee." 

Then  she  smoothed  down  her  little  white  frock 
with  her  right  hand,  for  all  the  world  like  Miss  Jones 
of  seventeen  at  her  first  party,  and  began: 

"J'ai  eu  soupe  de  sa  gueule  au  bout  de  nuit  jours, 
Sale  animal!  .  .  ." 

For  some  minutes  the  audience  sat  with  the  fixed 
and  glad  smile  of  people  who  have  not  the  slightest 
idea  of  what  is  being  said.  Then,  one  by  one,  a  stray 
word  here,  a  sound  or  a  syllable  there,  remembered 
dimly  from  high-school  days,  bred  suspicion ;  towards 
the  end  suspicions  became  a  moral  certainty.  Lips 

165 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

tightened.  One  looked  at  one's  neighbour  furtively 
to  see  if  one's  surmise  as  to  the  trend  of  the  recitation 
was  correct.  One  judged  that  it  was,  and,  taking 
courage,  set  the  face  in  lines  of  disapproval,  not  with- 
out a  hope  that  someone  else — (a  little  late) — would 
mark  one's  expression  and  give  one  credit  as  a 
linguist.  One  remembered  having  been  to  Boulogne, 
and,  in  the  event  of  discussion  afterwards,  which  was 
certain,  one  registered  a  determination  to  exaggerate 
the  trip  as  far  as  Paris,  which  had  a  more  cosmopoli- 
tan ring  about  it. 

In  fact,  suspicion  growing  during  the  recitation, 
coupled  with  the  open-mouthed  surprise  of  the  half- 
dozen  who  really  did  understand  its  naughty  import, 
caused  the  curtain  to  fall  in  a  silence  only  broken  by 
a  few  enthusiasts  near  the  roof,  for  whom  Iris  might 
just  as  well  have  been  reciting  in  Chinese,  but  who 
thought  she  was  a  "damn  fine  girl,"  anyway,  and,  be- 
ing about  the  first  of  this  description  to  appear  before 
them  that  afternoon,  deserved  her  meed  of  applause 
on  this  count. 

And  that  was  the  only  applause  she  obtained,  for 
the  Reverend  John,  to  whom  she  looked  with  a  de- 
mand in  every  curve  of  her  body,  sat  like  a  clerical 
sphinx  while  the  curtain  fell  upon  this  piece  of  de- 
liberate impertinence. 

Mrs.  Douglas  understood  French  well  enough  to 
have  followed  the  drift  of  the  recitation,  and,  had 
Iris  deserved  to  be  repaid  for  her  daring,  the  horror 

166 


"SHEER  IMPERTINENCE" 

of  this  lady's  eyes  would  have  been  ample  compensa- 
tion. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Heslop,"  she  said,  "what  a  scandal- 
ous thing!" 

"Absolutely  scandalous,"  he  agreed,  "but  it  was 
passed  by  the  committee." 

The  full  meaning  of  the  position  dawned  upon  her 
all  at  once.  She  herself  might  be  held  partially  re- 
sponsible for  this  terrible  thing.  She  and  Miss  Figgis 
and  Sir  George !  It  must  be  put  right  at  once;  there 
must  be  an  explanation.  She  muttered  something 
about  "seeing  the  others"  and  left  the  box  hurriedly. 
She  found  members  of  the  committee  already  in  con- 
clave in  the  vestibule.  Sir  George  Osser  was  truculent 
— "should  never  have  thought  of  allowing  my  name 
to  appear,"  he  was  muttering,  while  his  fingers  were 
more  like  eels  than  ever.  Miss  Figgis,  who  was  trying 
to  get  Ferdinand  Madders  to  tell  her  what  the  recita- 
tion was  about,  realised  only  that  some  fearful  social 
faux-pas  had  been  committed,  and  being,  poor  lady, 
the  very  last  person  to  be  able  to  survive  anything  of 
that  sort,  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  It  was  resolved 
that  there  must  be  an  explanation.  The  woman  must 
be  "dropped" — the  affair  could  not  be  ignored.  The 
good  taste  of  Miss  Figgis,  Mrs.  Douglas,  Ferdinand 
Madders  and  Sir  George  Osser  was  involved,  espe- 
cially, they  were  given  to  understand,  Sir  George 
Osser,  "whose  family  name  had  never,"  etc.,  etc. 
Ferdinand  Madders,  who  had,  in  the  formation  of 
the  committee,  been  Iris's  sponsor,  was  now  anxious 

167 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

for  this  fact  to  be  forgotten  and  was  foremost  in  his 
desire  that  the  Russian  should  be  shown  what  society 
thought  of  her  breach  of  good  manners.  They  be- 
came then  and  there  a  committee  of  ways  and  means, 
and  before  the  curtain  fell  and  the  Reverend  John 
had  made  his  little  speech  and  announced  the  sum 
which  was  to  be  handed  over  to  the  Red  Cross,  the 
fate  of  Iris  was  decided.  She  had  done  for  herself 
this  time,  and  when  she  came  out  of  the  building  and 
passed  a  little  crowd  of  acquaintances  waiting  in  the 
entrance  for  cabs  and  'buses,  she  found  society  al- 
ready busily  looking  the  other  way. 

That  evening  she  called  on  the  Reverend  John. 

"I  came  in  the  dark,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh,  "in 
case  I  should  be. seen  coming  here  and  entirely  ruin 
you.  Are  you  going  to  cut  me,  too?" 

"I  am  far  too  old,"  said  the  clergyman,  "to  cut 
anyone." 

"I  suppose  you  think  it  was  very  wrong  of  me?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Rather  childish,"  he  said,  "but,  then,  I  don't  ex- 
pect anything  else  of  you ;  you  are,  after  all,  only  a 
spoilt  child."  He  looked  at  her  from  under  his 
bushy  eyebrows. 

"I  suppose,"  she  answered,  "it's  a  crime  to  be 
young." 

"By  no  means,"  he  replied,  "it  is  misguided,  on 
the  other  hand,  to  grow  up.  Many  people  by  the 
time  they  have  gained  experience  have  lost  everything 
else." 

168 


"SHEER  IMPERTINENCE" 

"You  used  to  talk  to  me  about  the  other  lady," 
she  murmured;  "I  suppose  now  you  don't  think  she 
exists."  She  paused,  but  he  gave  no  answer.  "Now, 
if  I  had  been  your  daughter,"  she  went  on,  "what 
would  you  do?" 

"Send  you  slumming  for  a  couple  of  months,  I 
think;  it  might  educate  you  a  little." 

She  made  a  little1  moite  of  disgust. 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  she  said,  flinging  out  her 
arms.  "I  suppose  I'm  all  wrong  and  full  of  bad 
taste  and  things,  but  I'm  not  a  humbug.  I  know  what 
I  like.  I  like  that  recitation  and  I  like  setting  them 
all  by  the  ears  and  I  think  they  are  a  narrow  lot  of 
frumpy  fools!  What's  worse,  I'd  do  it  again  to- 
morrow! There's  not  a  man  or  woman  I've  met  in 
this  wretched  little  hole  that's  like  me.  They  never 
feel  bubbly,  they  never  lose  their  tempers,  they — they 
— they  don't  mean  anything  at  all,  any  of  them !  And 
they  all  think  this  is  the  whole  world."  She  worked 
herself  into  a  big  rage.  "I  hate  them  all — every  one 
of  them !"  Her  eyes  suddenly  softened,  and  a  smile 
lit  up  her  face  like  the  sun  peeping  out  from  behind 
a  thunder  cloud  in  April.  "Except  you,"  she  said, 
and  added  whimsically,  "and  you  are  sixty-eight!" 

She  looked  at  the  big  head  and  saw  the  twinkle  in 
the  old  man's  eyes  which  she  knew  so  well. 

"It  beats  me,"  she  said,  "how  you  can  stand  it 
here,  a  man  like  you  I" 

"But,  you  see,"  he  explained,  "I  don't  consider 
169 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

them  a — what  was  it? — a  narrow  lot  of  frumpy 
fools." 

"You  must!"  she  insisted.  "You  must  see  that 
they're  hopeless!" 

But  he  shook  his  head  obstinately. 

"Well,  I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  "I  wish  I 
was  back  in  the  South — Vienna  again — I'm  all  wrong 
here.  They  just  used  to  adore  me  there  and  not — 
not  analyse  everything.  Andrea  always  laughs  at 
that  recitation!" 

"I,  too,  consider  it,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "a 
very  funny  recitation." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  laugh?" 

"I  did,  my  dear  lady,"  he  returned.  "I  had  just 
finished  laughing  when  you  came  in  to-night." 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment  and 
saw  that  the  words  meant  more  than  they  said. 

"Oh,  hell,"  she  remarked,  with  a  gesture  of  weari- 
ness, "I  wish  to  goodness  you  were  my  father !  I  sup- 
pose I'm  wicked  and  a  little  devil,  but  I'm  beginning 
to  feel  I  want  to  curl  up  in  somebody's  arms !" 

She  drew  her  wrap  round  her  and  went  to  the 
door. 

"Don't  see  me  out,"  s"he  said,  as  he  followed  her, 
"there's  a  cold  wind  to-night." 

But  in  the  hall  the  old  gentleman  suddenly  turned 
her  round  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  his  gnarled,  to- 
bacco-stained hands  on  her  arms.  She  watched  the 
searching  eyes  grow  softer  and  softer  until  suddenly 
he  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

170 


"SHEER  IMPERTINENCE" 

"Good  night,  my  daughter,"  he  said,  "sleep  well," 
and  then  as  he  turned  to  go  upstairs,  "It  is  ecclesias- 
tical diction,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  "on  the  same 
terms  it  is  permissible  for  you  to  call  me  'father'  in 
private." 

Iris  was  on  the  mat  in  the  doorway. 

"Thank  you,"  she  returned.  "Good  night — • 
daddy!"  And  she  was  gone. 

''Daddy!"  repeated  the  old  gentleman  to  himself 
as  he  began  to  undress.  "Daddy !"  He  caressed  the 
word  as  he  said  it.  Then  he  chuckled  and  addressed 
himself  in  the  looking-glass.  "You  are  a  sentimental 
old  fool,"  he  said,  "and  your  sympathy  with  naughti- 
ness is  absolutely  unpermissible  in  your  position. 
How  I  would  like  to  run  round  and  tell  Mrs.  Douglas 
that  the  abandoned  woman  came  round  here  this  eve- 
ning and  I  kissed  her !  Upon  my  soul,  I  believe  she 
would  write  to  the  bishop !" 

Then  his  eyes  grew  grave  again.  "But  all  the 
same,"  he  added,  "the  little  Russian  isn't  a  very 
simple  problem  after  all,"  and  he  fell  to  thinking  of 
her  future.  Ridiculous,  childish  old  man !  Do  you 
dare  to  deny  that  the  last  word  you  uttered  in  a 
drowsy  voice  as  you  laid  your  head  on  your  pillow 
some  twenty  minutes  later  was — "Daddy"? 


171 


CHAPTER  XV 

"THE  LITTLE  TIN  GOD  AND  A  TELEGRAM" 

MR.  CUMBERS'S  remark,  when  in  due  course  the  final 
ostracism  of  Iris  had  arrived  (via  Ferdinand  Mad- 
ders!) at  Applegarth,  is  worth  recording  as  being, 
in  its  way,  a  very  beautiful  Example,  if  I  may  coin  a 
word,  of  a  "Cumberism." 

He  simply  turned  to  Mary  and  said: 

"There  you  are ;  that's  what  comes  of  foreigners!" 

You  have  leave  and  licence,  anyone  who  may  hap- 
pen to  read  this  book,  to  laugh  at  the  above  in  your 
enlightenment,  and  to  compare  the  ridiculous  state- 
ment with  what  your  own  views  would  have  been  in 
such  a  case.  But  every  dog  has  his  day,  and  every 
sincere  statement,  however  absurd,  has,  like  a  medal, 
its  obverse  side;  and  in  Henry  Cumbers's  quite 
ludicrous  comment  upon  the  situation  there  lay  the 
germ  of  his  kind  of  loyalty  and  patriotism,  quite 
world-shaking  in  its  ultimate  workings,  however 
parochial  it  may  appear  in  this  instance. 

He  detested  Iris,  and  he  detested  her  type.  She 
stood,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  for  everything 
that  was  unreliable,  shifting,  without  standard,  un- 
English. 

172 


"THE  LITTLE  TIN  GOD" 

Mr*.  Cumbers  said  "Yes"  to  his  remark,  quite 
automatically.  A  little  later  she  began  to  think  over 
her  answer,  this  being  the  mental  process  of  most 
women,  and  found  that  it  was  inadequate  to  the 
question  implied. 

After  all,  she  thought,  to  be  foreign  can  hardly 
be  one  of  the  deadly  sins,  and  she  wondered  why 
Henry  thought  it  was;  yet,  had  Iris  in  her  opinion, 
done  any  deadly  harm  to  Tristram,  every  foreigner 
in  her  view  would  have  become  outcast  and  damned. 
For  this  is  the  way  of  mothers.  She  forgot  the  ques- 
tion after  breakfast  in  the  intricacies  of  interviewing 
the  cook. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  that  the  big  days  in  our  little 
personal  histories  seldom  announce  themselves  with 
a  blare  of  trumpets.  No  stupendous  miracle  of  a 
sunset  marks  the  evening  when  Edwin  is  accepted  by 
Angelina — no  vast  disturbance  in  the  forces  of  na- 
ture distinguishes  the  hour  when  Edwin  junior  first 
sees  the  light  of  day,  and,  by  the  same  token,  the  sun 
rises,  the  water  in  the  bath-room  is  tepid,  and  the 
fried  egg  and  bacon  at  breakfast  is  overdone  in  the 
usual  way,  just  two  hours  or  three  minutes,  as  the 
case  may  be,  before  some  disaster  happens  in  our 
lives  which  changes  our  thoughts,  our  ways,  our  con- 
victions— which  changes  us.  For  we  do  change  when 
these  disruptive  events  charge  into  the  ordered  exist- 
ence which,  in  the  amazing  conceit  which  is  the  great 
sedative  of  earthly  existence,  we  all  plan  out  for  our- 
selves. The  death  for  instance  of  a  wife,  a  brother, 

173 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

a  friend,  if  they  have  really  meant  to  us  what  the 
words  imply,  makes  of  you  and  me  a  different  per- 
sonality to  that  which  laughed  and  frowned  in  the 
same  clothes,  before  the  telegram  arrived  or  the  let- 
ter was  torn  open,  half-way  through  the  dozen  bills 
and  invitations  on  the  breakfast  table. 

Upon  my  soul,  it  serves  us  right  I  How  are  we 
justified  in  looking  upon  life,  either  our  own  or  our 
loved  ones',  as  our  possession;  as  we  look  on  our 
bank-balances,  the  bracket-clock  in  the  drawing-room, 
the  thirty  acres  we  inherited  from  grandpapa  ?  We 
know  how  we  made  our  money,  we  know  the  price  we 
paid  for  that  old  bracket-clock,  but  we  have  not  the 
least  idea  who  breathed  the  life  into  our  bodies,  or 
who  put  the  soul  behind  ourselves ;  we  know,  too,  why 
we  wanted  that  particular  clock,  but  we  do  not  know 
why  we  ourselves  were  wanted,  or  for  how  long;  and 
so  our  coming  and  our  going  are  really  far  less  to  be 
regretted  than  if  the  clock  fell  off  its  bracket  and 
smashed,  because,  after  all,  we  are  God's  curios,  and 

if  He But  you  see  the  idea,  and  the  digression 

has  gone  far  enough  and,  for  all  I  know,  become  an 
intolerable  bore. 

Well,  on  this  particular  morning  Henry  Cumbers, 
having  delivered  himself  of  his  whole  attitude  to- 
wards the  pretty  lady  who  was  his  next-door  neigh- 
bour; and  having  eaten,  with  his  customary  grumble, 
his  eggs  and  bacon;  and  having,  moreover,  found 
time  over  the  Daily  Telegraph  to  destroy  the  reputa- 
tions of  three  Generals,  a  Prime  Minister  and  a  King, 

174 


"THE  LITTLE  TIN  GOD" 

caught  his  train  to  Canon  Street,  and  arrived  at  the 
Office  with  two  minutes  to  spare ;  which  is  the  whole 
duty  of  a  good  husband.  There  had  been  a  letter 
from  Tristram  the  day  before,  bearing  the  still  ro- 
mantic and  amazing  field-post  mark,  with  the  as- 
surance, annoying  and  not  always  true,  that  some 
third  party — called  a  censor — had  read  and  ap- 
proved of  it.  It  started : 

"My  darling  Mother  and  Father " 

Followed  half  a  sheet  of  directions  for  the  dis- 
patch of  various  bodily  necessities.  Then  suddenly: 
"Everyone  in  the  battalion  says  there's  going  to  be 
a  show  pretty  soon." 

Muriel  had  received  a  letter  too — a  short  letter, 
a  little  formal,  also  advertising  a  "show"  in  the  im- 
mediate future. 

Now  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  war  and  the 
exact  meaning  of  the  word  "show"  was  not  quite 
realised.  I  have  an  idea  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cumbers 
thought  that  he  meant  something  in  the  nature  of  a 
parade — a  big  parade,  perhaps.  Brigades  .  .  .  ! 

Muriel  alone,  young  and  "slangy,"  glimpsed  the 
possibility  of  another  meaning.  But  she  said  noth- 
ing, knowing  that  to  be  alarmed,  to  "get  the  wind 
up,"  was  not  English.  .  .  .  But  she  loved  him,  and 
the  immediate  result  may  be  registered  by  the  local 
doctor  adding  a  guinea,  and  the  local  chemist  three 
and  sevenpence,  to  their  incomes  on  account  of  a 
bromide  mixture  to  "Miss  Hudson — to  be  taken  as 
required."  In  a  file  of  medicinal  prescriptions  may 

175 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

often  be  found  a  whole  epitome  of  human  devotion. 
Henry  Cumbers  arrived  at  the  office  in  a  very 
irritable  frame  of  mind.  To  start  off  with  there  had 
been  a  man  in  the  train — one  of  those  heartily  con- 
fidential artisans  who  tap  one  on  the  knee  and  talk. 
All  men  are  equal,  of  course,  but  when  the  breath  of 
one  smells  of  shag  such  Christian  principles  are  hard 
put  to  it  to  survive.  The  particular  gentleman  who 
had  annoyed  Henry  that  morning  had  been  expand- 
ing a  theory  that,  if  only  the  young  men  had  not 
been  so  foolish  as  to  volunteer,  the  war  would  ap- 
parently have  disappeared  into  thin  air.  He  used 
phrases'like  "the  will  of  the  people"  and  "nonrepre- 
sentative  government,"  which,  as  phrases,  even 
Henry  recognized  as  a  trifle  threadbare.  The  whole 
sweating,  well-meaning  man  smelt  of  "lectures" — 
"self-improvement."  Cumbers  felt  a  sensation  of 
extreme  irritation.  His  own  policies  were  extreme 
Tory;  an  idosyncrasy  of  the  lower  middle  class,  trace- 
able to  an  idea  that  these  are  the  views  of  the  upper 
middle  class.  There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  be 
expected  to  know  that  he  was  talking  to  the  amoeba, 
if  not  the  halfway  house,  of  an  enlightened  genera- 
tion. Our  own  times  are  as  the  mixture  in  the  crucible 
at  the  first  stage  of  a  chemical  experiment — the 
brownish,  dirty  mixture  is  being  placed  over  the  flame 
— and  Mr.  Cumbers  is  not  the  man  to  predict  that 
this  drab  concoction  will  produce  the  wonderfully 
coloured,  amazingly  potent  result  which  the  chemist 
is  hoping  for. 


"THE  LITTLE  TIN  GOD" 

Anyway,  he  is  irritated  and  restless  at  the  imperti- 
nence of  a  man  who  tied  string  round  his  trousers 
below  the  knee  not  only  having  an  opinion  but  actual- 
ly producing  it  in  the  presence  of  one  who  had  worn 
spats  (the  same  pair!)  for  seven  years — ever  since, 
in  fact,  he  had  risen  from  second  clerk  to  first.  There 
is  etiquette  in  everything. 

Thus,  being  thoroughly  disgruntled,  he  was  not 
altogether  sorry  that  on  this  particular  day  he  was 
destined  not  to  sit  at  the  roll-top  desk  with  the  black 
stain  in  the  left  hand  corner  where  a  former  head 
clerk  had  put  down  cigarette  stumps  (slovenly  fel- 
low!), but  was  dispatched  upon  a  special  and  re- 
sponsible erand  to  one  of  the  firm's  agencies  who 
carried  on  their  little  fight  for  existence  in  a  semi- 
country  town  not  far  up  the  line  from  Liverpool 
Street.  These  expeditions  always  pleased  Henry.  It 
was  quite  a  pleasurable  feeling  walking  into  their 
small  rooms,  a  representative  of  "Head  office."  The 
sensations  of  an  accredited  ambassador  are  not  only 
experienced  at  the  Court  of  St.  James,  nor  are  they 
limited  to  that  very  wonderful  age  when  one  becomes 
a  prefect  at  one's  Public  School.  In  fact  these  child- 
ish joys,  if  only  the  truth  were  told  (only  it  never 
will  be,  because  those  on  whom  the  passage  of  time 
has  thrust  the  stigma  of  the  brand  "grown-up"  must 
never  admit  that  there  are  moments,  and  many  mo- 
ments, when  they  are  just  seventeen,  or  just  twelve, 
or  four — or  anything  without  a  "just  sense  of 
values,"  a  state  of  mind,  by  the  way,  which  will  be 

177 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

treated  as  a  disease  one  day  and,  I  hope,  yield  to 
inoculation),  these  childish  joys,  I  repeat,  are  secret- 
ly indulged  in  not  only  by  the  middle-aged,  but  even 
the  decrepit,  and  are  indeed  the  chief  pleasures  of 
life !  Any  well-worn  man  or  woman  in  the  fullness 
of  their  years  may  pooh-pooh  this  statement  if  they 
will,  but  I  shall  uphold  it  for  all  that,  and,  if  neces- 
sary, "grave  and  reverend"  though  they  may  be,  I 
will  call  them  liars  to  their  faces — and  the  worst  sort 
of  liars  at  that — for  they  are  ashamed  of  their  own 
human  selves. 

That,  of  course,  is  but  one  opinion  and  is  a  mat- 
ter for  psychologists,  but  the  fact  remains  that  Henry 
Cumbers,  representative  of  "Blaywick  &  Co.,  En- 
gineers," stalked  into  the  office  of  the  agency  in  Mill 
Street,  Cowford,  Herts,  to  settle  a  question  involv- 
ing one  hundred  and  seventy  pounds  with  an  air  and 
a  presence  that  Napoleon  might  well  have  envied  at 
Austerlitz.  Moreover,  the  agent,  a  consumptive  who 
had  probably  got  the  job  because  of  the  ingratiating 
and  sweet  smile  which  consumptives  are  apparently 
given  in  poor  compensation  for  their  tragedy,  actually 
took  Henry  at  the  value  he  set  on  himself  when  he 
entered  the  little  shop,  and  was  immensely  impressed, 
chiefly  by  the  spats  and  the  white  slip  in  the  waistcoat, 
right  through  the  interview.  Needless  to  say,  Cum- 
bers had  the  time  of  his  life.  He  snubbed  the  young 
man  unmercifully  whenever  he  opened  his  mouth;  de- 
manded to  see  figures  and  facts,  which  he  already 
knew  by  heart,  simply  for  the  pleasure  of  being  able 

178 


"THE  LITTLE  TIN  GOD" 

to  demand  them ;  drove  the  unfortunate  youth  into  a 
quite  unjustified  idea  that  he  was  an  incompetent  ser- 
vant of  the  company  on  the  verge  of  being  dis- 
charged, and,  in  short,  did  all  the  things  that  a  little 
man  in  a  little  job  can  do  when  he  meets  another 
whose  job  is  smaller  still.  So,  for  Henry,  the  minutes 
slipped  by  as  quickly  as  they  are  wont  to  when  one 
is  enjoying  oneself,  and  when  the  lights  in  the  main 
street  of  Cowford  were  beginning  to  appear  in  little 
jerks,  as  they  do  in  country  towns  still  a  little 
ashamed  of  modern  conveniences,  Mr.  Cumbers  was 
still,  by  devious  ways,  inquiring  and  snapping  and 
prolonging  the  little  hour  which  he  was  allowed  as 
the  Xerxes  of  accountancy.  At  six-thirty,  when 
Henry  was  knitting  his  brows  and  muttering  "urn" 
and  "ah"  over  a  ledger,  the  entries  in  which  meant 
nothing  to  him  whatever,  and  when  the  consumptive 
assistant,  standing  respectfully  behind  the  little  man's 
shoulder,  was  quite  certain  that  he  could  look  upon 
his  dismissal  as  a  matter  of  hours  only,  a  telegram 
arrived  at  Applegarth.  Mary  Cumbers  opened  it 
with  trembling  fingers.  Telegrams  in  her  life  were 
not  of  such  frequent  occurrence  that  she  could  take 
out  the  thin  piece  of  paper  without  a  thrill.  .  .  . 

"No  answer,"  she  managed  to  say  to  the  waiting 
boy  and  she  closed  the  front  door  slowly. 

"Regret  to  tell  you  your  son  seriously  wounded. 
5th  General  Hospital,  Dover.  Advise  you  to  come 
immediately." 

179 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

She  went  into  the  drawing-room.  This  thing  could 
not  be  going  to  happen.  Its  incredibility  struck  her 
like  the  blow  of  a  hammer.  Why,  there  was  the 
black  satin  cushion  with  the  raised  pink  rose  in  the 
corner  which  Tristram  had  declared  to  be  in  the 
worst  possible  taste;  there  on  the  white  shelf  near 
the  fireplace  were  those  four  volumes  which  he  had 
brought  back  from  London  one  day,  and  she  remem- 
bered seeing  "3/3/0"  in  pencil  on  the  flyleaf,  and  un- 
derneath "Scarce"  in  a  very  bad  handwriting.  Tris- 
tram had  said  that  one  must  really  have  a  few  good 
books  in  the  house — "the  mind  starved  else";  and 
as  they  were  by  a  foreigner  (an  unpronounceable 
name  which  sounded  like  Bocakkio)  she  supposed 
they  must  be  "good."  A  year  later  she  remembered 
during  a  spring-cleaning  discovering  that  the  pages 
were  still  uncut  and  realising  that  Tristram  had  been 
guilty  of  a  little  intellectual  snobbery.  The  dear,  silly 
boy,  she  had  thought;  he  was  very  human  for  all  his 
Olympian  airs. 

And  there  outside  were  the  roses  which  Henry 
fussed  over  in  his  absurd  way,  and  the  gravel  path 
where  she  had  so  often  heard  Tristram's  restless  feet 
scrunching  up  and  down,  and  there  beyond,  the  little 
wooden  seat  and  the  box-hedge — all  just  the  same. 

And  in  her  hand  the  telegram ! 

She  found  that  she  could  catch  the  eight-fifty-three 
to  Charing  Cross,  the  last  train.  It  was  ten  minutes 
to  seven ;  Henry  should  be  back  at  any  minute — she 
would  pack  a  few  things  for  him.  But  first  she  went 

180 


"THE  LITTLE  TIN  GOD" 

into  the  kitchen.  The  "girl,"  as  she  was  called  in 
the  Cumbers  menage,  was  preparing  dinner.  She 
was  an  Irish  woman,  preternaturally  solemn,  with 
large  blue  eyes  which  grew  as  round  as  pennies  if  you 
addressed  a  remark  to  her.  A  good,  faithful  servant, 
with  one  failing.  She  would  sing  plaintive  and  soul- 
devastating  Irish  laments  as  she  went  about  her  work. 
It  was  her  way  of  showing  that  her  heart  was  light. 

"We — we  shall  not  be  in  to  dinner,  Mary,"  said 
Mrs.  Cumbers.  The  girl's  real  name  was  Maire, 
but  Henry  considered  this  "peculiar,"  and  it  had  been 
changed.  Her  eyes  grew  very  round  and  her 
solemnity  portentous. 

"Not  in !  and  when  it's  after  being  chicken  night, 
mum,  and  the  bird  half-way  there?" 

"No.  In  fact  Mr.  Cumbers  and  I  have  been  called 
away  suddenly.  We  may  be  away  several  days." 

And  the  thought  of  what  might  be  going  to  hap- 
pen during  those  days  must  have  expressed  itself  in 
her  eyes.  At  any  rate,  with  the  ready  sympathy 
which  is  always  on  the  very  surface  of  the  Irish 
temperament,  the  servant  guessed: 

"Ah,  sure,"  she  said,  "it's  never  Master  Tris- 
tram?" The  question  remained  unfinished. 

"Dangerously  wounded,"  returned  Mrs.  Cumbers, 
not  trusting  herself  to  say  more. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!"  The  girl  lost  her  re- 
serve and  her  reverence  at  once  in  the  rush  of  feel- 
ing which  came  over  her.  "Sure,  my  heart's  achin' 
for  you,  ye  poor  creature !"  She  took  Mrs.  Cumbers's 

181 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

hand,  and  the  touch  set  free  those  tears  which  had 
been  too  long  coming. 

The  mistress  cried  unreservedly  on  her  maid's 
shoulder. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  girl,  "it'll  ease  you,  com- 
ing that  way.  And,  after  all,  maybe  it  will  be  all 
right,  and  ye'll  have  his  tobacco  all  over  the  covers 
again  for  sure !  And  it's  I  will  be  prayin'  to  all  the 
saints  this  night  to  preserve  him — the  brave  boy  that 
he  is,  and  all !"  And  so  she  went  on  in  her  musical 
sing-song  until  Mary  Cumbers  had  wept  her  fill,  and 
was  ready  to  face  the  situation  once  more.  Then  the 
servant  returned  immediately  to  the  respectful 
"mum,"  which  was  her  usual  method  of  addressing 
her  employer.  And  if  somebody  up  in  Heaven  did 
not  write  down  six  good  marks  opposite  her  name 
in  the  Book  of  Deeds,  then  all  I  can  say  is  that  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  justice  at  all. 

Mrs.  Cumbers  judged  that  she  had  time  to  go 
round  and  tell  Muriel,  and  this  she  did. 

"I  know,  dear,"  she  said,  "that  Tristram  hasn't — 

hasn't  been  kind  to  you,  and  that  perhaps "  But 

Muriel  interrupted  her. 

"Oh,  what  does  that  matter?"  she  answered.  And 
then,  precocious  girl,  instinctively  adopting  the  atti- 
tude of  all  women,  she  added:  "He's  only  a  man!" 
and  went  upstairs  to  do  her  own  packing  for  the 
journey,  while  Mary  went  home  again  expecting  to 
find  that  Henry  had  returned. 

But  Henry,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  had  been  enjoying 
182 


"THE  LITTLE  TIN  GOD" 

himself  so  much  that  he  had  only  just  left  Cowford, 
and  could  not  possibly  be  back  for  an  hour  and  a  half. 

In  the  early  days  of  their  married  life  Mary  had 
almost  killed  herself  with  anxiety  on  occasions  when 
Henry  was  late  for  dinner.  Later  on  she  realised 
that  her  husband  extracted  an  inexplicable  pleasure 
at  these  irregularities  (few  and  far  between  as  they 
were)  being  taken  for  granted.  It  appeared  that  He 
imagined  himself  thereby  a  "card" — one  whose 
movements  were  not  to  be  forecast.  .  .  .  And  so, 
of  course,  she  had  trained  herself  to  take  them  for 
granted.  She  knew  by  intuition  that  her  husband  was 
the  kind  of  man  who  likes  to  think  that  his  business 
is  so  important,  so  responsible,  that  it  may  take  him 
anywhere — at  any  hour,  that  there  was,  in  fact,  no 
limit  of  mere  time  to  be  put  upon  the  value  of  the 
services  of  Henry  Cumbers. 

Thus,  as  I  say,  Mary  was  not  alarmed  at  the  non- 
appearance  of  her  husband,  but  only  upset  that  she 
would  have  to  go  to  Dover  without  him.  Moreover, 
such  is  the  very  real  gap  which  exists  between  a 
mother  and  a  father  in  their  understanding  of  one 
another  that  she  felt  quite  sincerely  that  she  herself 
was  the  one  who  was  really  essential  at  the  side  of 
that  bed  in  the  military  hospital.  Of  course  Henry 
was  his  father;  but  when  children  are  ill — weak — 
dying — (thus  the  mother) — a  father,  after  all,  has 
his  work,  his  "affairs."  .  .  .  And  really  and  truly 
think  most  wives,  a  husband  doesn't  mean  his  chil- 

183 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

dren  as  seriously — or  take  them  as  seriously — as  she 
does. 

I  have  an  idea  that  it  would  be  impolitic  and  un- 
wise to  prove  to  mothers  that  they  are  mistaken  on 
this  point,  so  I  am  not  going  to  attempt  it.  Let  it 
be  enough  that  Mary  Cumbers,  having  put  a  note 
upon  the  fumed-oak  ledge  of  the  hat-stand  for  her 
husband,  left  for  Dover  by  the  eight-fifty-three  from 
Charing  Cross,  accompanied  by  Muriel,  who  was,  as 
usual,  of  supreme  use  in  getting  tickets,  corner  seats, 
cabs — and,  in  fact,  doing  everything  that  had  to 
be  done. 

Henry  arrived  at  Applegarth,  rather  pleased  with 
himself,  at  a  quarter  to  nine. 


184 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"THE  GRAND  TOUR" 

HE  put  his  latch-key,  which  he  still  regarded  as  a 
kind  of  insignia,  into  the  lock  and  stamped  into  his 
hall  just  as  loudly  and  imperially  as  usual.  He  put 
his  bowler  hat  on  the  stand  with  that  sense  of  pro- 
prietorship which  was  mother's  milk  to  him,  jammed 
his  umbrella  into  its  appointed  place  and — saw 
Mary's  note.  Through  the  whole  period  of  their 
married  life  he  could  never  remember  his  wife  writ- 
ing him  a  note  before.  Therefore  this  must  be  a 
disaster.  Relations?  .  .  .  Aunt  Anne  dead  at  last 
of  her  cancer?  .  .  .  Cousin  Robert?  .  .  .  No,  that 
was  gall-stones  and  Robert  was  a  young  man  still. 
The  far-off  connections  who  lived  at  Melbourne? 
.  .  .  Tristram? 

Tristram!  His  mental  process  shows  how  near, 
for  all  his  absorption  in  it,  he  had  really  got  to  the 
possibilities  of  war. 

He  grabbed  at  the  envelope,  crushing  it  into  a 
shapeless  piece  of  paper,  and  tore  it  open — suddenly 
blotchy-white — realising,  perhaps,  for  the  very  first 
time,  what  it  means  to  be  a  father. 

He  read  the  little  note  and  went  immediately  for 
185 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

his  Bradshaw.  That  volume  seemed  even  more  diffi- 
cult to  control  than  usual,  and  when  he  did  turn  up 
the  right  page  it  was  only  to  find  that  he  had  already 
missed  the  last  train.  Well,  he  must  get  to  Dover 
somehow  or  other.  He  must  hire  a  car.  Whatever 
the  cost  might  be,  and  Henry  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  of  the  price  of  motor  hire,  that  was  the  only 
course  open  to  him.  Where  was  the  nearest  tele- 
phone? He  remembered  that  there  was  one  next 
door,  at  Dangerfield,  the  house  of  that  vulgar  foreign 
woman  I  .  .  . 

Now  mark  how  the  spinning  wheel,  presided  over 
by  the  sinister  sisters,  gathers  speed  and  weaves  into 
a  wild,  unordered  pattern  the  grey  thread  of  Henry 
Cumbers  and  the  purple  that  was  Iris,  linking  into 
the  mad  tangle  a  little  of  the  inscrutable  colour  which 
must  represent  the  Reverend  John. 

Iris  was  giving  a  little  dinner-party.  The  Reverend 
John  had  received  a  note  which  started: 

"DEAR  DADDY, — Come  to  dinner  if  you  are  not 
afraid  of  being  unfrocked.  .  .  ." 

And  being  a  man  who  feared  neither  Sir  George 
Osser  nor  Mrs.  Douglas,  nor  indeed,  anything  ex- 
cept cowardice  in  the  face  of  his  own  convictions,  he 
had  replied: 

"Mv  DEAR  DAUGHTER, — I  will  dine  with  you 
with  pleasure.  The  risk  is  yours,  for  if  I  am  un- 
frocked you  will  be  compelled  to  give  me  an  allow- 

186 


"THE  GRAND  TOUR" 

ance  for  the  rest  of  my  days  as  conscience  money.— 
Your  affectionate  FATHER. 

"P.S. — Get  me  grape-fruit,  if  you  can;  it  is  a  vice 
of  mine." 

There  were  two  other  guests — the  gay  young  man 
from  the  Russian  Embassy  and  a  friend  of  his  whom 
Iris  had  met  and  whom  she  had  asked  him  to  bring 
along.  The  gay  young  man  was  full  of  trivialities. 

"My  new  'bus,"  he  said,  "is  an  absolute  top-holer. 
She'll  do  seventy-five  on  the  level,  won't  she,  Hugh?" 
This  to  his  companion,  at  the  moment  a  little  shy. 
He  estimated  top-speed  at  eighty. 

"Anyway,"  went  on  the  young  diplomat,  "we  got 
down  here  from  Belgrave  Square  in  twenty-two 
minutes ;  that'll  show  you  I  I  took  some  paint  off  in 
Orchard  Street;  a  fellow  got  in  the  way " 

"This  is  a  cocktail  I  mix  myself,"  said  Iris,  as  the 
maid  came  in  with  glasses  on  a  tray.  "I  hope  you'll 
like  it !  /  don't  drink  it  because  it  isn't  sweet  enough 
for  me — but  men  are  so  perverse  about  sweet 
drinks." 

"No,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  a  question,  "I  won't 
give  you  the  recipe.  I  believe  in  being  desirable !  If 
I  told  you  I  wore  a  toupee,  for  instance " 

"I  shouldn't  believe  it!"  broke  in  the  young  man. 

"Ah,"  she  went  on,  "but  the  iron  would  have 
entered  into  your  soul  nevertheless." 

"Well,"  remarked  the  second  young  man,  the  edge 
187 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

of  whose  shyness  was  now  wearing  off,  "I  must  say 
I  call  an  amusing  woman  a — a  relief  I" 

"Not  much  of  a  compliment  to  our  sex!"  retorted 
the  Russian.  One  of  those  arguments  about  a  sense 
of  mmiour,  which  can  never  achieve  an  end,  threat- 
ened to  develop  when  the  Reverend  John  came  in. 

The  diplomatist  showed  how  young  he  was  at  his 
trade  by  manifesting  at  once  his  surprise  at  the  fourth 
guest  being  an  old  clergyman  who  must  be  nearly 
seventy. 

Iris  was  in  her  most  audacious  mood.  She  saw  the 
young  man's  expression  and  laughed.  "Mr.  Strick- 
land is  surprised  to  see  me  entertaining  a  clergyman," 
she  said  to  the  old  man. 

"I  don't  wonder,"  returned  the  Reverend  John, 
"though  it's  probably  not  so  much  my  cloth  as  my 
white  hairs.  You  are  a  very  rude  woman  to  notice 
it." 

"She  really  is  rather  apt  to  take  one's  breath  away, 
isn't  she?"  said  the  young  man. 

"I  shall  preach  a  sermon  next  week,"  the  old  gen- 
tleman remarked,  "on  the  decay  of  manners." 

"You  must  add  a  rider,"  said  Iris,  "on  the  growth 
of  sincerity.  Nobody  used  to  call  a  spade  a  spade  in 
the  eighteenth  century." 

"Oh,  didn't  they?"  retorted  the  clergyman.  "You 
display  your  ignorance,  madam.  Only  in  those  days 
they  only  referred  to  spades  when  they  were  in  the 
garden!" 

She  turned  to  the  two  young  men  and  laughed. 
188 


"He  always  talks  like  that,"  she  said,  "it  gives 
him  time  to  plan  what  he  is  going  to  say  next  while 
you  are  thinking  it  out!" 

"That,"  remarked  Mr.  Strickland,  "is  the  very 
essence  of  diplomacy." 

They  went  into  dinner. 

I  think  on  that  summer  night  Iris  was  destined 
to  show  every  colour,  every  facet  of  her  many-sided 
self.  She  was  brilliant,  amusing  and  tempestuous  in 
turn,  and  the  conversation  never  flagged  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  Reverend  John,  with  his  half  didactic, 
half  jesting  little  sentences,  served  admirably  to  give 
new  turns  to  worn-out  themes  and  to  stimulate  argu- 
ments and  theories.  Even  the  shy  young  man  fought 
his  way  into  the  repartee,  and  laughed  as  loudly  as 
anyone,  and  when,  over  a  particularly  stubborn  en- 
counter, the  subject  of  which  no  one  could  remember 
five  minutes  later,  the  Russian  lost  her  very  elusive 
temper  and,  after  her  custom,  smashed  the  nearest 
thing,  which  happened  to  be  a  salt-spoon,  nobody 
seemed  to  mind,  and  such  exhibitions  appeared  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

The  Reverend  John  was  buried  in  grape-fruit,  and 
the  young  men  were  drinking  port  and  cracking  nuts, 
when  the  maid  came  in  with  Henry  Cumbers'  card. 
Iris  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  in  mute  astonishment. 

"It  appears  to  be  a  matter  of  importance,"  mur- 
mured the  maid,  in  a  discreetly  low  tone. 

"I'll  come  down,"  she  said.  Henry  Cumbers! 
What  in  the  world  could  he  want  with  her?  And 

189 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

the  piquancy  of  it!  That  ridiculous  little  man  down- 
stairs, and  the  vicar  enjoying  grape-fruit  up  above 
in  this  riotous  company! 

She  excused  herself,  telling  them  she  would  not 
be  gone  more  than  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  went 
down  into  the  hall. 

Henry  was  standing  there,  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
looking  even  more  ridiculous  than  usual.  His  face  was 
flushed,  and  his  hair,  disordered,  formed  a  ragged 
little  bush  round  the  bald  patch  on  his  head.  With 
that  kind  of  effort  at  dignity  which  tries  pathetically 
to  protect  itself  with  the  longest  words  possible  he 
"begged  for  the  loan  of  Madame  Iranovna's  tele- 
phone on  a  matter  of  the  first  importance." 

"Of  course,"  said  Iris,  and  led  him  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. He  seized  the  telephone,  and  she  noticed 
that  he  had  taken  off  the  receiver  before  he  had 
found  the  number  which  he  wanted.  She  went  out 
and  shut  the  door.  Along  the  passage  she  looked  out 
through  the  little  casement  window  by  which  you  got 
a  glimpse  of  the  garden.  How  very  unimportant  the 
little  man  had  looked  with  his  red  face  and  untidy 
hair,  how  pathetic  his  dignity!  She  thought,  with  a 
smile  which  had  a  tinge  of  triumph  in  it,  how  com- 
pletely lost  Henry  Cumbers  would  be  in  that  con- 
versation which  he  had  broken  into  upstairs.  Truly 
an  uninspiring  little  man — made  up  of  little  preju- 
dices, little  pleasures — oh,  little  everything! 

Her  thoughts  were  snapped  off  by  the  reappear- 
ance of  Henry. 

190 


"THE  GRAND  TOUR" 

"I  hope  you  got  your  number,"  she  said  politely. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  replied,  "that  I  was  unsuccess- 
ful." His  pomposity  did  not  desert  him:  his  hand 
was  steady  as  he  picked  up  his  hat;  there  was  nothing 
to  show  that  Henry  was  at  his  wits'  end  and  in 
despair.  He  gave  no  sign,  and  so  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  it  was  that  Iris  knew,  all  at  once,  that  the  mock- 
ing grin  of  Tragedy  had  peeped  suddenly  over  the 
shoulder  of  Comedy,  whose  broad  smile  was  still  un- 
consciously supreme  in  the  room  overhead.  But 
know  she  did,  by  some  weird  magic  of  her  own,  and 
lo  and  behold!  in  a  moment  the  contemptible  little 
figure  of  Mr.  Cumbers  seemed  to  slide  right  out  of 
her  vision  and  she  saw  only  an  overgrown  boy  who 
was  doing  his  very  best  not  to  cry  because  it  was  be- 
neath his  dignity. 

"Can  I  help?"  she  asked. 

"Thank  you,"  began  Henry  stiffly,  "I  am 

afraid "  And  then  he  stopped.  Perhaps  he  saw 

something  in  her  eyes  which  he  had  never  seen  there 
before — this  scandalous,  daringly  dressed  lady.  Per- 
haps it  was  simply  that  he  felt  he  must  unburden 
himself  of  his  troubles,  a  desire  common  to  all  men 
when  they  are  overcharged  with  disaster.  Have  you 
not,  with  a  little  shock  of  surprise,  heard  the  unenter- 
prising Mr.  Jones  next  door  apparently  talking  to 
himself  in  the  bath-room?  That  is  because  Fate  has 
dealt  him  a  blow,  and  he  would  rather  talk  about  it 
to  himself  than  bear  it  in  silence,  which  is  sometimes 

191 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

golden,  but  as  often  made  of  lead.  Anyway,  out  it 
all  came. 

"I  ...  I  have  to  get  to  Dover  to-night,"  he 
panted.  "Missed  the  last  train.  I've  rung  up  three 
garages.  No  answer  at  two,  and  the  other  has  no 
cars.  .  .  .  My  boy  .  .  .  seriously  wounded.  I've 
been  sent  for !" 

He  had  the  front  door  half  open,  and  as  her  mind 
drank  in  his  words,  and  her  heart,  the  existence  of 
which  he  did  not  suspect,  told  her  the  misery  in  which 
he  must  be,  she  was  conscious  in  the  darkness  beyond 
the  gate  of  a  long  slender  outline,  below  which  the 
electric  blue  of  the  young  diplomat's  "top-holer'* 
screamed  aloud  to  be  noticed,  even  at  night  time. 

"Poor  little  man!"  she  said,  meaning  it  for  her- 
self; but  it  was  loud  enough  to  reach  Henry's  ears. 
He  did  not  resent  it,  she  noticed,  though  he  must 
have  heard  it.  Poor  dignity,  all  gone!  One  of 
those  mad  tempests  arose  in  her  which  had  so  often 
been  her  undoing. 

"Are  you  ready  to  go  now?"  she  asked,  a  new 
tone  in  her  voice. 

"Of  course,"  he  grunted,  "but "  She  hardly 

heard  him.  Her  mind  was  taking  in  the  shy  young 
man's  fur-lined  British  warm  lying  on  the  oak  chest, 
the  diplomat's  motoring  cap  on  a  peg. 

"Come  on,  then!"  she  cried,  and  ran  down  the 
garden  path.  The  cap  sat  rakishly  on  a  crushed 
coiffure;  she  was  struggling  into  the  British  warm. 

"Why,  look  here !"  began  Henry,  whose  mind  was 
192 


"THE  GRAND  TOUR" 

starting  to  go  round  like  a  buzz-saw  under  the 
impetus  of  the  race  of  events.  But  she  had  started 
up  the  engine  before  he  could  finish  the  sentence. 

"Thank  God !"  he  heard  her  say.  "Dynamo  light- 
ing!" 

He  stood  on  the  pavement  dumb,  incapable  of  ac- 
tion. He  noticed  she  was  holding  the  door  open 
for  him. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said;  "I  can't  behave  like 
this!" 

"You'll  be  there  in  three  hours,"  she  answered, 
and  actually  bundled  him  in  like  a  child.  He  was 
protesting  still  as  she  climbed  over  him  to  the  driver's 
seat,  but  she  took  no  notice. 

"Do  you  know  the  road?"  she  asked.  He  shook 
his  head. 

"Never  mind — we  shall  find  it !"  Then  she  actual- 
ly laughed.  "Aren't  I  mad!"  she  said.  The  high- 
powered  car  jumped  forward  under  her  touch,  and 
Henry  suddenly  came  to  himself.  "Look  here !"  he 
said.  "Wait!  Stop!"  A  sudden  flood  of  the  re- 
spectable habits  of  fifty  years  came  upon  him.  "We 
might  be  seen!"  he  said. 

Iris  may  have  heard  him,  but  her  answer  was  in- 
consequent. 

"She'll  do  seventy-five  on  the  level,"  she  chuckled. 
They  had  already  put  nearly  a  mile  behind  them. 
Henry  made  a  last  effort  to  retain  his  normal  reason- 
ing powers. 

"Is  this  your  car?"  he  asked. 
193 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"No,"  she  replied,  as  they  gathered  speed. 

Mr.  Cumbers  fell  back  into  his  seat  silent.  Events 
were  too  much  for  him.  The  woman  was  mad, 
absolutely  insane.  They'd  probably  be  arrested — 
she  was  in  evening  dress — he  a  churchwarden  .  .  . 
stolen  car  .  .  .  exceeding  limit  .  .  .  his  mind  be- 
came one  confused  scandal.  The  road  seemed  to 
leap  away  from  under  them — if  she  went  that  pace 
through  London,  of  course  they  would  be  killed  .  .  . 
and  he'd  be  killed  if  he  tried  to  get  out  .  .  .  perhaps 
that  would  be  best.  He  had  to  put  both  hands  up 
to  hold  on  his  hat. 

Only  one  fact  of  comfort  stood  out  in  the  bewilder- 
ing kaleidoscope  of  this  last  quarter  of  an  hour  of 
life. 

At  any  rate  they  were  on  the  road  to  Dover.  .  .  . 

The  coffee  had  long  been  finished  at  Dangerfield, 
and  the  non-appearance  of  Iris  could  no  longer  be 
ignored. 

"I  think,"  said  the  Reverend  John,  "I  had  better 
ring  the  bell  and  inquire." 

The  maid  came  in  and  stood  in  the  doorway  ex- 
pressionless. 

"Has  anything  happened  to  Madame  Iranovna?" 
asked  the  old  gentleman. 

"I  think,"  answered  the  maid,  "that  I  heard  her 
go  off  with  the  gentleman  next  door  in  the  blue  car." 
There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Oh  .  .  .  thank  you!"  said  the  clergyman.  For 
194 


"THE  GRAND  TOUR" 

once  even  he  was  at  a  loss.    The  maid  went  out,  and 
the  three  men  looked  at  one  another. 

"She — she's  gone  off  in  my  car!"  said  the  young 
diplomat. 

The  Reverend  John  suggested  that  she  might  have 
left  an  explanation  downstairs.  They  proceeded  into 
the  hall  and  looked  about  for  a  note.  The  shy  young 
man  shuffled  on  his  feet. 

"I  say,  you  know,"  he  began,  "I  hate  to  say  any- 
thing, but  my  British  warm  has  gone !" 

In  a  shamefaced  way  his  companion  cast  an  eye  on 
the  peg  where  he  had  hung  his  cap. 

"And  my  cap,  by  George!"  he  muttered.  They 
relapsed  into  an  uncomfortable  silence.  The  Rev- 
erend John  was  trying  to  fit  every  impossible  theory 
he  could  think  of  to  the  situation.  None  of  them, 
even  giving  Iris's  amazing  temperament  full  scope, 
would  fit.  Thus  having  nothing  to  say,  he  held  his 
tongue.  The  young  attache,  fingering  nervously  a 
small  moustache,  pulled  him  out  of  his  reverie. 

"You'll  forgive  me,  sir,"  the  young  man  was  say- 
ing, "but  I  know  very  little  of  Madame  Iranovna;  in 
fact,  I  have  only  met  her  once  before.  ...  I  knew 
her  fiance  in  Petrograd  .  .  .  Bakaroff  ...  at 
least,  he  said  he  was  her  fiance.  .  .  ." 

"That  is  quite  true,"  said  the  clergyman ;  "he  is." 

"You  see  what  I  mean,  sir,"  went  on  the  diplomat, 
"this  is  rather  queer  .  .  .  and  .  .  ." 

The  Reverend  John  cut  him  short  with  the  most 
clerically  benign  of  smiles. 

195 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"I  quite  understand  your  misgivings,  Mr.  Strick- 
land," he  said,  "and  I  admit  that  I  cannot  give  you 
any  explanation  at  the  moment  of  the  enforced  loan 
of  your  car,  and" — he  turned  to  the  shy  young  man 
— "your  British  warm;  we  will  say  nothing  of  the 
cap." 

He  paused  and  thrust  one  arm  into  his  shiny  black 
overcoat. 

"But  if  you  want  a  guarantee  of  Madame  Ira- 
novna's  perfect  honesty  and  absolute  truthfulness,  I 
am  prepared  to  give  it  to  you." 

He  fumbled  in  a  sagging  pocket  and  produced  a 
card. 

"St.  Mark's  Vicarage  will  always  find  me,"  he 
added. 

The  two  young  men  proceeded  home  by  under- 
ground, marvelling;  the  young  diplomat  placing  the 
clergyman's  card  in  the  safest  recess  of  his  pocket- 
book.  He  put  it  to  himself  that  a  man  of  the  world 
takes  no  chances. 

As  for  the  Reverend  John,  he  walked  to  the  next 
gate  and  rang  the  bell  at  Applegarth.  The  Irish 
maid,  expecting  no  one,  had  gone  to  bed,  and  the 
old  gentleman  stood  upon  the  step  longer  than  he 
should  in  the  night  air.  But  he  was  far  too  intrigued 
to  return  to  the  Vicarage,  and  at  last  he  learnt  the 
solution  from  a  round-eyed  girl  in  curl-papers. 


196 


CHAPTER  XVII 
"THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS" 

WHEN  the  night  is  young,  when  the  pageant  of  sum- 
mer has  not  altogether  lost  its  kaleidoscopic  appeal, 
when  green  is  still  green  but  almost  blue,  that  is  the 
really  witching  hour,  and  midnight  has  a  reputation 
which  (save  once  or  twice  in  the  year)  it  does  not 
deserve.  Even  Henry  Cumbers,  travelling  at  thirty 
miles  an  hour  through  such  an  unromantic  neighbour- 
hood as  Blackheath,  and,  moreover,  with  the  ad- 
ditional disadvantage  of  having  lost  his  hat  at  Lewis- 
ham  (a  monumental  affair  when  a  churchwarden  is 
in  question)  felt  the  touch  of  magic  on  his  arm  and 
sat  back  in  the  car  breathless  and  silent.  His  mind, 
stirred  though  it  was  into  the  consistency  of  a  souffle 
by  the  last  half-hour's  events,  still  centred  upon  his 
son. 

He  tortured  himself  wondering  whether  anything 
that  he  had  said  or  done  had  driven  his  boy  into  the 
army  and  laid  him  now  at  the  point  of  death.  He 
stared  straight  ahead  of  him  over  the  windscreen, 
visualising  life  without  Tristram.  Just  as,  in  those 
days  before  the  arrival  of  his  son,  he  had  dreamt  how 
different,  how  essential  he  was  to  be  amongst  chil- 

197 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

dren,  so  now  he  understood,  for  the  first  time  after 
many  years,  how  really  essential  he  was.  It  was  only 
when,  flying  along  a  country  road,  the  car  almost 
touched  the  seventy-five  miles  an  hour  of  which  the 
young  diplomatist  had  boasted,  that  Henry  suddenly 
thought  of  the  strange  position  in  which  he  found 
himself. 

Alone  at  night,  on  a  racing  car,  with  the  impossible 
Russian  creature  for  companion,  and  she  (he  cast  a 
hesitating  eye  on  her)  dressed  in  an  evening  frock, 
a  man's  cap  and  a  British  warm!  His  whole  status 
with  the  established  Church  seemed  to  fall  from  him 
at  the  sight.  He  felt  suddenly  cold  and  drew  his  coat 
closer  about  him.  Iris  saw  this  action,  and  with  one 
hand  drew  a  rug  from  under  her  feet  and  passed  it 
to  him.  It  did  not  enter  her  head  that  the  blood 
could  become  chilly  because  one  is  in  a  Bohemian 
situation  and  a  churchwarden.  Henry  accepted  the 
rug,  wondering  a  little  at  her  noticing  his  action.  It 
was  twenty  minutes  later  that  the  gods  played  their 
ace  of  trumps. 

Mr.  Cumbers  only  noticed  that  the  car  was  run- 
ning more  slowly,  and  was  a  little  thankful  for  this 
new  feeling  of  security.  Iris,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  heard  the  intermittent  gasps  of  the  engine  and 
knew  that  something  (she  had  not  the  slightest  idea 
what  it  was)  had  departed  from  its  usual  line  of  busi- 
ness. It  was  by  a  grassy  sidewalk,  with  a  tall  tangled 
hedge  behind  it,  that  the  car  finally  stopped  with  a 
couple  of  coughs  and  a  jerk.  Her  heart  in  her  eve- 

198 


"THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS" 

ning  shoes,  Iris  got  out  and  lifted  the  flap  of  the 
bonnet.  A  Viennese  gentleman,  in  those  distant  days 
when  she  had  been  a  chorus-girl,  had  shown  her  how 
to  drive  a  car.  Two  hours  after  supper  had  been 
the  extent  of  her  tuition,  and,  but  for  the  fact  that  her 
quick  brain  had  grasped  in  that  time  what  you 
pressed  with  your  foot  and  what  you  did  with  your 
hands,  she  knew  almost  as  little  of  an  automobile  as 
she  did  of  a  gramophone.  Yet  her  temperament  as 
an  actress  and  her  impertinence  as  a  woman 
prompted  her  to  open  the  bonnet  and  look  at  the 
engine.  Moreover,  such  is  the  amazing  adaptability 
of  her  sex,  although  the  grotesque  arrangement  of 
plugs,  wires  and  cylinders  presented  nothing  but  a 
jigsaw  to  her  mind,  yet  on  her  face  appeared  to 
Henry  Cumbers  the  expression  of  a  keen  and  inter- 
ested engineer !  She  helped  this  deception  by  unscrew- 
ing the  nearest  thing  that  appeared  movable.  Then 
she  walked  round  to  the  front  of  the  car  and  tried  to 
start  up  the  engine.  Unfortunately,  nothing  hap- 
pened. She  had,  in  her  effort  to  appear  an  expert, 
dismembered  the  carburettor. 

Henry  Cumbers  said  nothing.  Iris  thought  she 
had  better  put  back  the  little  arrangement  of  cylinders 
and  rods  which  she  had  taken  to  pieces,  but  to  her 
horror,  when  she  started  to  do  it  she  found  that  she 
had  forgotten  how  it  "went."  She  "pottered"  with 
it  for  some  sixty  seconds  with  a  growing  sense  of 
doom.  However,  she  remembered  her  role  of  ex- 
pert. Iris  always  remembered  her  role. 

199 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

She  turned  to  her  passenger  with  a  reassuring 
smile. 

"Do  you  mind,"  she  asked,  "winding  her  up  again 
while  I  watch  the — the  effect?"  She  congratulated 
herself  that  she  had  remembered  that  cars  are 
feminine.  Henry  got  out  obediently  and  did  as  he 
was  told. 

The  result  told  Iris  that  she  could  not  hope  to  keep 
up  her  deception  much  longer. 

She  heard  Henry's  voice  out  of  the  darkness.  His 
round  and  anxious  face  shone  at  her  in  the  beam  of 
the  head-lights. 

"You  don't  consider  the  breakdown  serious?" 

She  resolved  on  confession. 

"I — I  don't  know  whether  it's  serious  or  not,"  she 
began;  and  the  rest,  as  was  her  nature,  came  in  a 
rush.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  know  one  part 
of  the  car  from  another.  I've  only  driven  two  or 
three  times  before  in  my  life.  All  I  know  is  that  the 
wheels  won't  go  round !" 

She  saw  Henry  Cumbers  staring  at  her  open- 
mouthed.  Remembering  some  magazine  stories  of 
burglars  with  flash-lamps,  she  drew  comfort  from 
the  fact  that  the  glare  of  the  lights  hid  her  from 
him.  Glancing  up  the  grass  bank  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  she  saw  through  the  little  coppice  of  young 
trees  which  topped  it  the  summer  moon.  It  winked 
down  at  them  between  the  leaves  with  a  suggestion 
of  eternal  indifference  which  somehow  made  her  feel 
more  disturbed  than  ever.  It  seemed  a  very  narrow 

200 


"THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS" 

road;  almost  a  lane.  And  there  were  no  telegraph 
posts.  They  must  have  left  the  main  road  by  mis- 
take, she  thought,  and  realised  that  she  had  been  so 
busy  trying  to  remember  what  to  do  with  the  car 
that  she  had  had  no  time  for  these  important  de- 
tails. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  have  been 
driving  all  this  time  without  knowing  in  the  least 
what  you  were  doing?" 

The  incredulous  voice  of  Henry  broke  in  upon  her 
thoughts. 

"I  didn't  know  why  I  was  doing  it,"  she  said,  "if 
that's  what  you  mean.  I  don't  know  why  it  works 
so  ...  so  I  don't  know  why  it  won't  work." 

Anyone  but  the  churchwarden  would  have  detected 
something  like  a  sob  underneath  the  last  few  wards. 
He  mopped  a  cold  sweat  off  his  forehead. 

"We  might  have  been  killed,"  he  said  slowly. 

"I  suppose  we  might,"  she  returned,  "I  didn't 
think  about  it — I  was  just  set  on  getting  to  Dover." 
The  smooth  and  ordered  life  of  Henry  Cumbers  had 
never  before  encountered  this  kind  of  temperament 
that  risked  its  life  quite  heedlessly  for  a  momentary 
caprice,  and  he  began  to  be  aware  that  he  was  re- 
garding her  with  open  mouth  and  probably  looking 
very  idiotic.  He  knew  that  his  face  had  that  capacity. 
He  had  caught  himself  looking  idiotic  in  his  shaving- 
glass  when  Mary  had  made  some  half-sleepy,  early- 
morning  remark  not  in  her  character  as  Mrs.  Cum- 
bers (which  she  sedulously  cultivated  during  the 

201 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

day),  and  which  had  left  him  puzzled  and  open- 
mouthed.  He  felt  suddenly  that  he  was  in  the  lime- 
light, and  moved  round  to  the  back  of  the  car. 

"Where  are  we?"  he  asked,  in  an  effort  to  be 
practical. 

The  truth  had  got  to  come  now,  and  Iris  braced 
herself  for  it. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  "We  have  got  off 
the  main  road."  She  realised  that  she  must  make 
a  complete  confession.  "We  may  be  anywhere!" 
she  added  breathlessly. 

What  a  fool  she  had  been  I  Why  wasn't  she  still 
upstairs  in  the  little  drawing-room  at  Dangerfield, 
in  her  right  province,  making  "brilliant"  talk  for  her 
guests  and  keeping  up  her  reputation  as  a  clever, 
fascinating  woman !  And  what  on  earth  could  they 
be  thinking  at  the  moment?  What  mad  and  ridiculous 
impulse  had  made  her  sorry  for  her  absurd  little 
neighbour  and  put  her  in  this  disastrous  position? 
Her  mind  (a  trained  athlete  beside  that  of  Henry 
Cumbers)  leapt  to  a  thousand  dire  consequences  to 
which  this  ridiculous  caprice  might  lead.  She  saw 
him  dimly  at  the  back  of  the  car  .  .  .  hatless  .  .  . 
absurd  ...  a  figure  for  laughter,  if  ever  there  was 
one,  and  found  almost  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
that  she  could  not  laugh.  She  had  promised  to  take 
him  to  his  son — his  son  who  was  lying  in  a  hospital 
perhaps,  even  then,  dying,  and  she  had  let  him  down. 
In  that  moment  Iris,  the  irresponsible,  who  had 
played  with  everything  (even  Andrea)  all  her  life, 

202 


"THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS" 

and  remained  unscarred,  experienced  the  sudden 
panic  at  the  heart  which  comes  to  those  who  know 
that  they  are  part  of  a  situation  which  is  too  big  for 
them.  She  felt  helpless,  foolish,  a  child  in  the  posi- 
tion which  she  had  made  for  herself;  and  in  her 
inability  to  help  that  forlorn  suburban  figure  which 
stood  at  the  other  end  of  the  car,  clinging  desperately 
even  now  to  the  remnants  of  its  very  respectable  ideas 
about  things,  her  inward  self  cried  quite  unmistakably 
"You  are  rotten!"  And  since  a  wise  Deity  has  made 
women  more  genuine  than  men — at  least  in  the  fact 
that  when  the  tears  come  no  ridiculous  etiquette 
forces  them  away,  and  to  how  many  diverse  and  un- 
expected emotions  those  same  tears  are  the  sign- 
posts to  our  sympathies — so  now  the  brilliant  Rus- 
sian lady  became  a  simple  woman,  and  startled  Mr. 
Cumbers  with  the  sudden  outburst  of  her  crying. 

Now  Henry  could  be  unsympathetic  and  cold  in 
the  face  of  anything  but  tears.  When  these  came 
they  demoralised  him;  it  is  not  an  unusual  trait  in  the 
most  usual  of  men. 

At  the  gasping  sorrow  choking  up  in  Iris  the 
churchwarden  became  soft  and  peurile.  He  made, 
naturally,  a  ridiculous  remark. 

"Even  the  tears  of  an  adventuress,"  he  said  pom- 
pously, "ought  to  be  respected." 

He  was  approaching  her  along  the  side  of  the 
car,  and  she  looked  up,  suddenly  indignant. 

"Why  do  you  hate  me  so?"  she  asked  quickly. 
203 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

He  stopped  and  stammered  woefully,  like  a  man 
detected  in  a  petty  crime. 

"I  don't  hate  you,"  he  said  slowly,  collecting  him- 
self in  the  same  way  as  he  marshalled  the  figures  in 
his  account  books.  "I  don't  hate  anyone.  It — it  is 
very  wrong  to  hate  people.  Anyway" — in  a  burst 
of  what  was  his  real  self — "I  couldn't  hate  anyone 
who  is  as  young  as  you  are."  He  stopped,  looked  at 
her,  and  suddenly  put  his  foot  into  it  very  badly  in- 
deed. 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,"  he  said;  "that  is  all." 

It  was,  perhaps,  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Iris' 
tongue  failed  her.  This  was  incredible.  That  the 
ridiculous,  suburban,  narrow  little  person  who  paid 
the  rent  of  Applegarth  should  be  sorry  for  her !  Why, 
she  herself,  from  the  pinnacle  of  her  cosmopolitan- 
ism and  wide  experience  of  the  world,  had  every  now 
and  then  found  it  in  her  heart  to  be  sorry  for  him ! 
She  noticed  suddenly  that  his  thick,  veined  hand  was 
on  her  sleeve. 

"I  dare  say  you  acted  for  the  best,"  he  was  saying 
kindly.  In  fact  this  note  of  kindness  in  his  voice  re- 
duced her  again  to  speechlessness — like  a  couple  of 
knock-out  blows  following  close  upon  one  another. 

And  there  were  the  car,  and  the  summer  moon,  and 
the  soft  rustle  of  a  baby  breeze  playing  with  the 
saplings  on  the  rim  of  the  bank  .  .  .  and  the  church- 
warden's hand  now  closing  on  her  own  with  a 
significance  unmistakably  fatherly!  Her  mind, 
whimsical  still  even  at  this  amazing  juncture,  went 

204 


"THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS" 

back  to  a  time  which  now  seemed  centuries  ago  when 
Tristram  (moonstruck,  too,)  had  stalked  out  of  his 
father's  drawing-room  on  her  first  visit  for  all  the 
world  like  the  young  hero  of  a  four-hundred-night- 
old  melodrama  .  .  .  and  when  she,  triumphant,  had 
murmured  "quelle  debacle"  beneath  her  breath.  Here 
was  another,  less  expected,  debacle. 

She  pulled  her  thoughts  back  to  the  immediate 
present. 

"You  see,"  she  began  slowly,  "this  isn't  my  car. 
If  it  was,  I'd  leave  it  and  try  to  find  the  main  road 
with  you.  As  it  is,  I'm  afraid  I  must  stick  by  the 
wretched  thing."  She  looked  round  her  as  she  spoke. 
The  moon  had  disappeared  behind  a  cloud — a  grass- 
hopper whirring  somewhere  near  appeared  mysteri- 
ous, even  monstrous;  a  thousand  hedge-obbligatos, 
pleasant  enough  upon  a  summer  afternoon,  now  be- 
came elfish  and  terrifying.  It  cost  her  a  great  deal 
to  say  what  she  did. 

"Of  course,"  she  began  bravely,  "the  Dover  road 
cannot  be  far  off;  you  must  find  it,  and  get  somebody 
to  give  you  a  lift.  There  will  be  lots  of  traffic  going 
down, to  the  coast;  you  have  only  to  explain." 

She  saw  his  absurdly  ordinary  face  set  in  lines  she 
knew  well.  She  had  seen  them  first  when  he  had  met 
her  in  his  drawing-room  and  had  noted  the  cut  of 
her  frock. 

"That  is  absurd,"  he  said.  "Naturally,  I  shall  not 
leave  you." 

So  that  curling  of  the  mouth  did  not  only  express 
205 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

disapproval.  She  realised  that  prejudice  and  a  sense 
of  honour  may  sometimes  fly  the  same  colours.  She 
began  to  feel  a  little  out  of  her  depth.  He  seemed 
to  wrap  himself  round  with  his  code  of  manners  like 
a  tortoise. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  impulsively,  "what  is  there 
for  you  to  pity  in  me?" 

She  asked  the  question  half  hoping  that  he  would 
be  astonished  at  such  an  idea,  but  the  answer  came 
immediately  in  the  slow,  irritating  tones  which  she 
knew  so  well. 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  "the  glorious  uncertainty  of 
your  life  would  make  me  miserable,  that's  all!"  She 
answered  nothing.  The  rather  theatrical  imagination 
[which  had  been  given  to  her  flew  to  the  most  dramatic 
figure  in  the  situation.  Her  thoughts  turned  towards 
Tristram,  that  absurd  young  man  with  the  romantic 
outlook,  who  now  .  .  .  yes;  exactly  .  .  .  !  It 
must  be,  she  supposed,  the  same  silly  suburban  face, 
the  same  spotty,  self-conscious  young  man  that  she 
knew,  who  now  lay  (wounded,  mark  you,  in  the  face 
of  the  enemy!)  in  the  military  hospital  at  Dover. 

She  remembered  what  were  practically  the  last 
words  he  had  said  to  her:  "You  can  think  of  me,  in 
a  fearful  funk  .  .  .  being  sick!" 

Yet,  apparently  (whether  he  had  been  sick  or  not) 
Tristram  had  remained  at  his  post  until  he  was  hit. 

She  took  a  deep  breath,  recasting  in  her  mind  sev- 
eral conceptions.  The  ridiculous  suburban  boy,  after 
all,  though  there  were  no  decorations  on  his  tunic, 

206 


"THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS" 

happened  to  possess  a  great  many  of  the  attributes, 
which  have  brought  capital  headlines,  exclamation 
marks,  and  (as  a  natural  corollary)  Fame,  to  Lieu- 
tenant X.,  Private  Y.,  Captain  Z.,  and  numerous 
others  who  deserved  all  their  medals  but  none  of 
their  notoriety  for  a  reason  which  every  one  of  these 
V.C.'s,  M.C.'s,  D.C.M.'s,  etc.  etc.,  will  know  and 
understand  far  better,  in  all  probability,  than  Pendle- 
ton  at  the  club  (who  was  born  too  soon,  poor  fellow, 
and  had  to  fight  the  whole  of  Armageddon  in  the 
Evening  News],  or  Brown  in  his  nice  house  (with  a 
quarter  of  an  acre  of  garden)  on  Putney  Hill,  who, 
just  inside  the  age  limit,  considered  well  about  his 
wife  and  two  children  and  found  that  his  "family" 
was  of  more  importance  than  the  point  at  issue.  One 
is  sorry  for  Pendleton,  but  one  is  almost  desolate  as 
regards  Brown.  So,  as  has  been  said,  with  a  great 
effort  of  mind  Iris  set  Tristram  amongst  the  heroes. 
And,  whether  you  believe  it  or  not,  the  same  great 
effort  has  been  made  by  countless  others  during  the 
last  four  years.  For  it  is  not  easy  to  understand,  all 
in  a  moment,  that  the  boy  you  knew  so  well,  that 
young  man  for  instance  who  fell  into  the  perfectly 
amazingly  stupid  imbroglio  with  the  chorus  lady  and 
who  would  persist  in  an  evening  waistcoat  with  jade 
buttons,  is  yet  made  of  the  same  stuff  as  Achilles 
and  Agamemnon,  and  lacks  only  one  thing  that  was 
theirs  .  .  .  and  that  a  Homer!  This  much  is  set 
down  lest  you  despise  Iris  and  rate  her  a  feather- 
head  who  cared  for  none  of  these  things.  In  those 

207 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

moments  by  the  side  of  that  darkening  road  it  ap- 
peared to  her  that  her  whole  mind  was  being  turned 
upside  down.  She  actually  felt  that  her  own  pulsing, 
palpitating  personality  was  less  real,  in  point  of  fact, 
than  the  insignificant,  opinionated  father  who  was 
mopping  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief  not  ten 
yards  away.  And  some  magic  of  the  situation,  some 
hidden  appeal  in  the  picture,  told  her  that  she  was 
nearer  at  this  moment  to  "the  other  lady"  which  had 
been  the  theme  of  the  sermon  which  the  Reverend 
John  had  preached  in  her  drawing-room  these  many 
weeks  ago,  than  she  had  ever  been. 

"I — I'm  sorry,"  she  said  suddenly,  "sorry  about 
everything!" 

He  coughed  nervously  and,  if  she  could  believe  her 
ears,  he  murmured,  "Not  at  all." 

"And,"  she  went  on,  ploughing  up,  merciless  and 

womanlike,  her  own  heartstrings,  "if  Tristram " 

she  stopped  and  was  surprised  to  hear  a  firm  voice 
break  in  upon  her  hesitation. 

"If  my  boy  dies,"  said  Henry,  "I  shall  have  to 
make  a  bit  of  a  fresh  start  at  life  .  .  .  I  know  that!" 

She  felt  a  curious  thrill  at  the  words :  so  much  so 
that  she  closed  her  eyes,  trying  to  shut  out  the  banal 
figure  of  Henry  which  was  so  poor  a  frame  for  his 
soul,  and  to  create  for  herself  some  half  mediaeval, 
half  mythical  knight  in  armour,  throwing  down  a 
glove  to  fate  and  ready  to  abide  the  issue. 

So  it  was  that,  at  the  foot  of  a  grass  bank  in  a 
Kentish  lane,  Prettiness  and  Cleverness  surrendered 

208 


"THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS" 

to  Character,  as  indeed  they  have  always  to  do  sooner 
or  later.  In  the  exaggerated  self-abasement  which 
seemed  to  swamp  her  she  experienced  suddenly  the 
feelings  of  one  who  has  pretended  he  can  swim,  and 
finds  himself  for  the  first  time  out  of  his  depth. 
Vaguely  she  longed  for  the  presence  of  the  old  clergy- 
man. During  her  short  pilgrimage  in  the  un- 
familiar surroundings  of  Dangerfield  and  Apple- 
garth  he  alone  had  seemed  to  understand  her  and  to 
be  prepared  with  a  solace  or  a  solution  to  every 
storm.  Here  there  was  no  one  but  her  own  dis- 
credited self  and  the  amazingly  unexpected  but 
equally  unhelpful  strength  of  Henry  Cumbers. 

She  gave  up  the  problem  and  rocked,  unreservedly 
unhappy,  backwards  and  forwards  on  the  foot  of  the 
bank.  As  was  her  nature,  all  the  whirlpool  that  was 
in  her  head  had  got  to  come  out. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  "little  man  in  a  little  world," 
she  cried,  adding  as  she  caught  sight  of  his  puzzled 
moon  of  a  face  .  .  .  "and  so  you  are  I  But  it's  a 
far  bigger  world  than  mine,"  she  went  on  quickly, 
"though  I  can  speak  five  languages.  That  was  a  fine 
thing  you  said — that  about  starting  again:  I  don't 
believe  I  could  have  said  that!  And  yet,  and  yet 
..."  A  puzzled  frown  showed  through  her  tears. 
"People  love  me  ...  in  their  way.  I  suppose  I 
amuse  them  and  so  they  .  .  .  they  give  me  nice 
things."  She  broke  off  and  looked  him  straight  in 
the  eye.  "I'm  not  an  adventuress  really,"  she  said. 
"Only  a  silly  woman;  you  see,  nobody  gives  you  a 

209 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

chance  if  you're  pretty.  They  just  tell  you  yon  are  the 
most  wonderful  thing  that  ever  happened.  .  .  .  And 
you  get  to  believe  it  in  time !"  She  gave  a  short  laugh 
and  looked  behind  her  through  the  young  trees.  "It's 
funny,"  she  said,  "for  me  to  be  telling  you  things 
like  that;  I  suppose  the  moon  has  gone  to  my  head!" 

Henry,  she  noticed,  was  running  his  forefinger  un- 
easily and  meaningless  round  the  rim  of  the  left  head- 
light. But  Iris  went  on — explaining  things  more  to 
herself  than  to  her  companion.  "Your  world's  bigger 
than  mine,  because  it's  real,  because  it's  got  a  stand- 
ard. I — I  loved  you  when  you  said  you'd  start  again. 
I  saw  your  shoulders  get  suddenly  straight.  And  I 
see  now  why  your  wife  trusts  you  and  believes  in 
you  .  .  ."  She  was  recovering  herself,  and  remem- 
bered all  of  a  sudden  the  sonorous  voice  of  Henry,  in 
his  little  garden,  overwhelming  Mary,  as  the  Master 
of  his  House.  She  drew  her  handkerchief  across  her 
eyes  and  sat  up. 

"But,  you  know,"  she  said,  "you  do  bully  her!" 

The  churchwarden  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

"I  bully  my  wife?"  he  ejaculated  with  a  sort  of 
gasp. 

"Didn't  you  know  it?"  she  retorted.  "Every 
word  she  says  is  an  echo  of  you.  I  don't  mean  that 
you  hit  her,  but  I  suppose  you  are  always  booming 
at  her!  There  are  lots  of  ways  of  bullying."  She 
paused  for  a  moment  and  reflected,  looking  at  his 
astonished,  respectable  face. 

"The  kind  ways  are  the  worst,"  she  added  slowly. 
210 


"THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS" 

Aghast  at  this  accusation,  the  genuine  quality  of 
which  he  could  not  question,  Henry  stared  at  the 
moon,  his  mouth  drooping  piteously,  his  whole  face 
a  study  of  a  baby  fifty-three  years  old. 

"How  ridiculous,"  he  thought,  "how  absurd  that 
this  impossible  girl  should  presume  to  .  .  ."  And 
there  his  thoughts  broke  off  with  a  snap.  The  moon 
gave  him  no  comfort.  Of  course  it  was  absurd  to 
suppose  he  bullied  his  wife — Mary  had  her  own. 
opinions,  often  .  .  .  how  often?  Henry  became 
suddenly  tongue-tied  and  wretched.  Perhaps,  after 
all  ...  but  how  could  the  disreputable  alien  from 
next  door  be  right  about  anything?  He  made  a  great 
effort,  not  altogether  successful,  to  sidetrack  this  dis- 
turbing idea  by  becoming  extremely  practical. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  we  must  make  up  our 
minds  to  spend  the  night  here?" 

"Gold,"  she  murmured,  "lying  down  with  glitter." 

She  saw  him  wince  at  the  conceit. 

"I  do  not  think,"  he  said  with  a  return  of  his  old 
pomposity,  "that  the  unfortunate  position  can  be  mis- 
understood." 

"Oh!"  she  returned,  "I  know  that  my  reputation 
will  be  quite  safe  in  your  hands." 

She  marked,  with  relief,  that  Henry  saw  no  pos- 
sible second  meaning  in  the  remark.  He  was  re- 
moving the  rugs  from  the  car;  his  slow-moving  mind 
had  gathered  by  now  the  import  of  her  sentence. 

"After  all,"  he  said  with  unexpected  wisdom,  "gold 
and  glitter  have  a  great  deal  in  common." 

211 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

He  arranged  the  cushions  of  the  car  into  a  rough 
bed,  and  arranged  the  rugs  upon  the  top  of  it.  Iris 
watched  him,  and  as  he  pounded  the  leather  cushions 
and  tucked  the  rugs  about  them  she  understood,  in 
part,  why  a  woman  had  loved  him. 

"But  what  about  you?"  she  asked  as  he  straight- 
ened himself  from  his  task. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  answered.  "If  I  want  to  sleep 
I  can  get  into  the  car." 

She  realised  from  his  tone  that  it  was  not  likely 
that  he  would  want  to  sleep.  Yet,  for  herself,  the 
night  air  had  done  its  kindly  office,  and  even  now  she 
could  have  slept  where  she  stood.  In  his  own  pom- 
pous way  he  was  indicating  the  bed  he  had  made  for 
her,  and  after  the  strain  of  driving  an  engine  of 
which  she  knew  nothing,  and  the  turmoil  of  finding 
out  the  worth  of  her  enemy,  it  appeared  at  the 
moment  very  desirable.  Yet  she  fought  against 
the  desire. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.    "But  I'm  not  sleepy  yet." 

"You  look  to  me,"  said  Henry,  "very  sleepy. 
And,"  he  went  on,  "you  certainly  ought  to  be,  after 
the  great  strain  you  have  been  through,  for  which," 
he  added,  with  a  ridiculous  half-bow,  "I  am  deeply 
indebted  to  you  1" 

His  very  earnestness  defeated  her. 

"I — I  am  tired,"  she  said,  crossing  to  the  bed  that 
he  had  built.  And  as  she  insinuated  herself  between 
the  rugs  another  wave  of  self-abasement  over- 
whelmed her.  But  she  was  really  very  sleepy,  and 

212 


"THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS" 

the  words  that  she  wanted  to  say  to  him  came  in  the 
vernacular  which,  as  she  imagined,  he  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"I  wish  to  hell,"  she  said,  "that  I'd  been  able  to 
get  you  there,  and — and  I  think  that  ridiculous  son  of 
yours  is  a  damned  good  chap  I" 

One  can  only  suppose  that  the  absurd  situation 
and  the  trees  and  the  moon  had  conspired  together  to 
produce  the  magic  wand,  which  undoubtedly  touched 
Henry  Cumbers  on  the  shoulder  at  this  moment. 

There  is,  at  any  rate,  no  doubt  that  he  straight- 
ened himself  up,  squared  his  shoulders,  and  said  (un- 
churchwardenly  but  most  sincerely)  : 

"Thank  God,  my  son  is  a  bloody  fine  fellow!" 

And  after  delivering  himself  of  this  frightful 
heresy  he  became  apparently  overwhelmed  with  shy- 
ness, and  started  up  the  road,  swinging  his  arms  like 
a  December  cabman,  though  the  night  was  as  mild 
and  comforting  as  the  South  of  England  can  make 
it;  and  indeed  Henry  must  have  made  himself  very 
hot  indeed  in  his  effort  to  erase  the  confusion  with 
which  his  sudden  reversion  to  nature  had  covered 
him. 

So  there  they  were,  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
the  only  couple  in  the  world,  for  some  hours  at  least. 
Some  such  idea  entered  Iris's  head  as  she  lay,  half- 
asleep,  on  the  bed  he  had  made  for  her.  If  it  were 
so,  she  pondered  lazily,  if  she  and  Henry  Cumbers 
were  really  alone  on  the  earth,  would  they  still  re- 
gard each  other  in  the  same  way?  Would  they  wan- 

213 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

der  apart,  one  choosing  the  south  roads  and  the  other 
the  north,  intractable  and  stubborn,  preferring  the 
vast  solitude  of  their  own  company  to  the  surrender 
of  one  jot  of  their  opinions?  She  supposed  not; 
they  would  find  something  in  each  other,  something 
that  kindled  sufficient  fire  to  keep  warm  a  comrade- 
ship. And,  after  all,  she  thought,  had  she  not  sur- 
rendered a  little  even  as  it  was?  She  had  admitted, 
in  the  first  rush  of  her  remorse,  that  he  was  brave 
and  true,  and  brave  and  true  he  was,  she  told  herself, 
though  such  big  words  seemed  really  to  belong  to 
some  gentleman  in  armour  not  at  all  like  that  rounded 
solemn  little  figure  of  which  she  could  catch  a 
glimpse,  peeping  round  the  corner  of  this  terrible  rug 
which  was  already  beginning  to  tickle  her  chin  most 
abominably. 

Brave  and  true !  As  she  looked  at  the  stupid  little 
man  she  realised  that  perhaps  it  required  a  certain 
meed  of  bravery  not  to  be  clever  and  not  to  be  a  suc- 
cess, and  that,  without  doubt,  it  required  a  great  deal 
of  honesty  to  be  true  to  one's  own  little  code  when 
one  is  so  unimportant  that  no  body  would  ever  notice 
whether  one  was  true  or  not.  It  was  with  a  feeling 
very  like  awe,  and  with  a  quite  inexplicable  lump  in 
the  throat,  that  she  saw  the  little  figure  fall  suddenly 
upon  its  knees,  the  bald  head  droop  on  the  rounded 
shoulders,  the  short  characterless  hands  come  to- 
gether in  a  gesture  of  appeal,  and  knew  that  Henry 
Cumbers  was  praying. 

She  could  not  remember  when  last  she  had  said  a 
214 


"THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS" 

prayer — possibly  she  never  had — but  now  she  looked 
up  into  the  summer  sky  winking  down  at  the  little 
earth-bound  bundle  on  the  improvised  bed,  with  its 
million  glittering  mysteries,  telling  her  what  a  very 
little  speck  she  was,  and  she  too  felt  suddenly,  like  all 
small  things,  the  necessity  to  ask  for  help. 

It  was  a  quaint  prayer  she  sent  sailing  away  into 
the  night:  highly  unorthodox,  the  Reverend  John 
would  have  called  it,  with  a  possible  added  rider  to 
the  effect  that  it  was  probably  none  the  less  efficient 
for  that. 

"Oh  God,"  she  said,  "whatever  that  funny  little 
man  is  asking  you,  please  see  he  gets  it." 

"That's  a  rotten  prayer,"  she  added  to  herself, 
as  she  took  a  last  sleepy  look  at  her  companion.  The 
Kentish  moon  was  high  over  the  trees  by  this  time, 
and  Henry  threw  a  queer  humpy  shadow  upon  the 
white  road.  He  was  still  praying.  Indeed,  half  an 
hour  later,  when  Iris  was  fast  asleep,  her  head  un- 
comfortably tucked  under  the  rug  in  order  to  defeat 
the  gnats,  Henry  was  still  praying. 


215 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"A  TEXT  FOR  THE  VICAR" 

IT  was  on  the  afternoon  after  these  events  that  Miss 
Figgis,  who,  if  your  memory  serves,  was  the  lady 
who  giggled  so  loudly  and  knew  so  well  that  she  had 
very  little  to  giggle  about,  called  upon  the  Reverend 
John.  It  appeared  that  she  was  "upset."  The  fact 
that  the  recitation  perpetrated  by  Iris  had  been 
originally,  albeit  ignorantly,  condoned  in  her  little 
drawing-room  seemed  to  weigh  upon  her  mind  con- 
siderably. The  Reverend  John,  who,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  was  thinking,  to  the  exclusion  of  almost  every- 
thing else,  about  the  inexplicable  happenings  of  the 
night  before,  greeted  her  kindly  enough.  He  had 
always  looked  upon  her  as  a  human  desert  unblessed 
by  even  one  oasis,  the  plains  of  which,  in  consequence, 
no  traveller  had  ever  the  courage  to  essay.  Yet  he 
would  have  been  the  first  to  admit  that  some  marital 
Stanley  or  Livingstone  might  well  have  found  in  this 
shrill,  hen-necked  spinster  a  streak  of  gold,  rich  and 
enduring. 

"I  wanted  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you,"  Miss 
Figgis  started,  with  some  hesitation. 

"Of  course,"  answered  the  clergyman,  "it  is  my 
216 


"A  TEXT  FOR  THE  VICAR" 

business  to  have  little  talks  with  people :  and  natural- 
ly every  now  and  then  even  business  is  a  pleasure." 

Miss  Figgis,  who  had  just  removed  her  gloves, 
started  to  put  them  on  again. 

"It's  about  that  Russian  creature,"  she  said  nerv- 
ously. "The  recitation,  you  know  ...  it  was  too 
.  .  .  too  dreadful,  wasn't  it?" 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "it  was  probably  a  great  deal 
more  scandalous  for  those  who  did  not  understand  it 
than  for  those  who  did." 

But  of  course  she  did  not  comprehend  what  he 
meant,  and  so  she  forgot  immediately  that  the  re- 
mark had  been  made  at  all.  The  Miss  Figgises  of 
the  world  have  this  capacity. 

"It  was  passed  in  my  house,"  she  said,  "and  I  feel 
a  certain  stigma  attaches  to  me." 

The  old  gentleman  sighed.  Translated  into 
emotion,  he  thought,  how  very  like  the  big  things  and 
the  little  things  of  life  became !  Miss  Figgis  was 
talking  like  an  ambassador  under  the  shelter  of  whose 
embassy  some  world-shaking  faux-pas  had  been 
made. 

Moreover,  she  was  every  whit  as  disturbed  as  the 
hypothetical  ambassador  would  have  been. 

"I  should  naturally  hate  my  name  to  be  connected 
with  anything  of  the  kind." 

She  threw  out  the  remark  as  if  the  clergyman  by 
a  wave  of  the  hand  could  prevent  such  a  catastrophe. 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  replied,  "who  could  ever  think 
217 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

of  connecting  your  name  with  such  an  unfortunate 
affair?" 

He  refrained  from  adding  that  no  one  ever  had 
connected  the  name  of  Miss  Figgis  with  anything 
at  all. 

"You  think  I  have  been  hypersensitive  in  the  mat- 
ter?" she  asked,  demanding  with  her  watery  eyes 
what  comfort  he  could  give. 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  said.  "It  must  be  a  weak- 
ness of  yours,  Miss  Figgis,  to  imagine  that  people 
are  blaming  you  for  things  over  which  you  have  no 
control.  But,  upon  my  soul,  we  all  have  our  weak- 
nesses. I,  for  instance,  can  never  refuse  a  rogue  half 
a  crown  .  .  .  that  is,"  he  added,  "if  I  happen  to 
have  half  a  crown.  It  is  a  very  serious  form  of  self- 
indulgence,  and  really  I  have  tried  to  fight  against 
it." 

Miss  Figgis  drew  her  gloves  off  again,  realising 
that  she  must  be  putting  them  on  when  she  rose 
to  go. 

"You  really  did  disapprove  of  the  performance?" 
she  asked. 

"Highly,"  he  returned,  regarding  with  quizzical 
humour  the  suspicion  in  her  eyes. 

"I  heard,"  she  said",  "that  you  were  dining  with 
the  woman  last  night." 

"I  was,"  he  returned  shortly,  a  new  gleam  under 
the  bushy  eyebrows. 

"Is  it  ...  was  it  wise?"  she  asked  hurriedly. 
"We  were  all,  in  a  sense,  involved  over  that  recita- 

218 


"A  TEXT  FOR  THE  VICAR" 

tion,  and  we  ought,  don't  you  think,  to  make  our 
disapproval  obvious  to  all  ?" 

He  nodded  as  if  to  himself. 

"So  it  was  because  you  heard  I  had  dined  there," 
he  said,  "that  you  wanted  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
me?" 

She  did  not  answer  his  question,  but  looked  away, 
fumbling  at  her  gloves. 

"There  are  the  weaker  brethren,"  she  murmured. 

"I  have  never  pretended,"  he  said,  "to  be  anything 
other  than  one  of  the  weaker  brethren  myself." 

"But  you  must  be,"  she  protested.  "Are  you  not 
a  clergyman?" 

"So  you  would  imagine  from  my  cloth,"  he  re- 
joined lightheartedly;  "but  I  am  afraid  I  have  never 
aimed  higher  than  being  a  human.  We  are  all  of  us 
beings,  but  so  many  of  us  are  not  human,  don't  you 
think?" 

He  was  on  the  doorstep  with  her,  and,  not  having 
understood  a  solitary  word  of  what  he  had  said,  she 
looked  to  his  expression  for  her  cue,  and  seeing  the 
slight  smile  at  the  corners  of  his  lips,  she  giggled  in 
a  way  she  felt  sure  was  convincing. 

But,  watching  the  thin  pathetic  figure  bobbing 
along  the  road  under  its  blue  sunshade,  the  old  gentle- 
man grew  a  little  sad  and  wondered,  as  he  turned 
back  into  the  vicarage,  how  on  earth  such  stuff  as  this 
was  ever  to  get  into  touch  with  the  great  comrade- 
ship of  the  world,  with  its  wonderful  strength  and  its 
wonderful  weakness,  its  marvellous  endeavour  and 

219 


its  splendid  hope.  .  .  .  All  the  great  throbbing 
mystery  of  it  that  he  loved  so  well  and  in  which  he 
had  fought  hard  to  play  his  part. 

"And  yet,"  he  said  to  himself,  when  he  was  once 
more  in  his  study,  scraping  the  charcoal  out  of  his 
pipe  and  sending  a  rain  of  black  over  the  hearthrug, 
"and  yet,  of  course,  there  must  be  something  in  the 
woman  that  I  have  overlooked." 

Then  he  turned  his  mind  once  more,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  to  Iris,  and  tried  to  fit  various 
theories  to  her  disappearance  in  a  stolen  car,  with  a 
stolen  cap  and  a  stolen  British  warm.  But  it  was  too 
much,  even  for  the  Reverend  John.  He  went  into 
the  garden  which  lay  at  the  back  of  the  vicarage  and 
walked  round  it  pensively.  Many  a  time  the  old 
gentleman,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  enthusiasm,  had 
descended  upon  that  little  patch  of  soil  with  seeds 
and  fork  and  trowel.  Yet  it  had  never  done  any- 
thing but  reflect  the  diffuse  and  jerky  mind  of  its 
owner  with  a  patch  of  flowers  here  and  a  disgraceful 
wilderness  of  weeds  next  door,  a  welter  of  colour  in 
one  corner,  a  heap  of  rubbish  in  the  other.  The  ways 
in  which  the  Reverend  John's  life  had  been  cast  were 
mirrored  marvellously  accurately,  in  that  garden. 
Here  the  big  red  and  yellow  and  green  of  enthusiasm, 
there  the  weeds  and  waste  of  routine  and  tradition — 
routine  which  he  had  never  understood,  yet  to  which 
he  knew  that  he  must  bow;  tradition  against  which 
the  virility  of  his  mind  revolted,  yet  to  which  his 
kindly  soul  surrendered,  just  because  of  those 

220 


"A  TEXT  FOR  THE  VICAR" 

"weaker  brethren"  in  whose  lives  he  had  found 
tradition  and  routine  the  very  prop  and  keystone. 
Now  he  walked  round  this  temperamental  little 
wilderness  wondering  what  trick  Faith  had  played 
his  Russian  "daughter,"  walked  round  and  round  till 
the  muscles  of  his  thighs  protested  against  this  vigour 
after  sixty-eight  years  and  began  to  remind  him  that 
in  the  handicap  of  life  the  body  cannot  always  keep 
up  with  the  mind.  His  eye  lighted  upon  a  bed  of 
thick  weeds  lying  conveniently  under  the  shade  of  a 
large  holly,  and,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  use  the  soft 
places  of  the  earth  much  as  Henry  Cumbers  used  his 
drawing-room  sofa  (only  much  more  naturally)  he 
sat  down  under  the  holly  tree,  and,  lighting  his  pipe, 
went  over  all  the  circumstances  of  Iris's  disappear- 
ance once  more. 

Now  the  Reverend  John  was  an  old  man,  and, 
moreover,  it  was  hot  and  he  had  had  his  lunch.  In 
the  weeds  under  the  holly  myriads  of  possible  reasons 
to  account  for  last  night's  affair  drifted  into  his 
brain,  drifted  and  were  dismissed,  came  back  of  their 
own  accord,  met  others,  fraternised,  separated,  met 
again,  metamorphosed,  became  a  detective  story, 
and  then  a  fairy  tale,  merged  and  appeared  again, 
wilder  and  more  impossible  than  ever.  The  Reverend 
John  was  asleep  in  the  weeds. 

It  seemed  perfectly  natural  to  Iris  on  her  return — 
after  first  changing  into  a  very  attractive  afternoon 
frock — to  report  herself  at  the  Vicarage.  She  ar- 
rived there  about  five  o'clock.  Mrs.  Jallop,  the 

221 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

housekeeper,  told  her  that  the  Reverend  John  was 
in,  and  asked  her  to  wait  in  the  dining-room.  After 
some  ten  minutes  she  returned. 

"All  I  can  say,"  she  remarked  in  her  downright 
fashion,  "is  that  'e  was  under  my  eye  up  to  a  quarter 
to  four.  If  Vs  gone  out  since  then  Vs  given  me  the 
slip,  that's  all!" 

Iris  realised  that  to  smile  was  to  forfeit  all  con- 
fidence. 

"Was  he  alone?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  returned  the  housekeeper,  "Miss  Figgis 
was  with  'im." 

"Really?"  she  said.    "How  long  was  she  here?" 

"Oh,  only  a  very  short  time — say  'arf  an  hour!" 

Iris  decided  that  half  an  hour  of  Miss  Figgis  was 
not  sufficient  to  drive  the  old  gentleman  into  the  open 
country. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "he  is  in  the  garden?" 

Mrs.  Jallop  stiffened  perceptibly. , 

"On  Thursdays,"  she  said,  "  'e  does  the  notes  for 
'is  sermon;  and  'e  ought  to  be  doing  'em  now!  But 
there  it  is,"  she  went  on,  with  a  note  of  martyrdom 
in  her  voice,  "I  can't  deny  as  Vs  given  me  the  slip 
this  time!" 

"I'll  go  into  the  garden  and  look,"  suggested  the 
Russian. 

The  housekeeper  nodded  and  opened  the  door. 
Then  she  fixed  Iris  with  a  peculiar  glare. 

"Not  that  I  agree  with  'is  sermons,"  she  said 
"I'm  a  dissenter  myself,  and,  in  my  opinion  'e's  far 

222 


"A  TEXT  FOR  THE  VICAR" 

too  nice — to  the  wicked,  I  mean,"  she  added,  with  a 
very  meaning  look  towards  the  visitor. 

"All  the  same,"  replied  the  Russian,  "he  is  rather 
a  splendid  man,  don't  you  think?" 

Mrs.  Jallop  paused  in  the  doorway,  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression on  her  face. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "  'e  is.  And  that  is  exactly  what 
I  can't  understand !"  And,  after  this  rather  illuminat- 
ing remark,  she  departed  for  the  kitchen,  where  were 
a  steak  and  some  new  potatoes  and  various  other 
things  which  she  did  understand. 

Meanwhile  Iris  went  into  the  garden. 

When  she  was  half-way  round  the  little  path  which 
bounded  the  Reverend  John's  landed  property  she 
called  his  name.  There  was  no  answer,  and  she  made 
up  her  mind  that  he  had  left  the  Vicarage  on  one  of 
his  ridiculous  walks.  All  the  same,  it  was  just  as 
quick  now  to  walk  right  round  the  little  garden  as  to 
retrace  her  steps,  and,  half-way  back  to  the  house, 
she  came  upon  that  recumbent  black  figure  upon 
which  she  had  stumbled  once  before  in  the  bracken, 
imagining  then  that  he  was  either  murdered  or 
drunk. 

Now  she  sat  down  beside  him  under  the  holly  and 
was  surprised  that  he  woke  up  at  once. 

"Well,  Daddy?"  she  said. 

"Well,  my  dear?"  he  answered  sleepily  (imagin- 
ing I  don't  know  what  sentimentalities).  But  Iris 
went  straight  to  her  point,  determined  to  spare  her- 
self nothing. 

223 


"Do  you  remember,"  she  asked,  "when  I  said  that 
I  would  educate  little  Mr.  Cumbers?" 

The  Reverend  John  yawned  and  raised  himself 
upon  one  elbow. 

"Certainly  I  do,"  he  answered. 

"Well,"  she  went  on,  "I  was  wrong,  that's  all !" 

He  sat  up  amongst  the  weeds  and  became  inter- 
ested. 

"Wrong?"  he  asked.     "How?" 

She  leant  against  the  holly  tree,  regardless  of  her 
frock,  and  looked  hard,  forgetful  of  his  ridiculous 
position,  into  the  old  man's  eyes. 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure,"  she  said,  "that  he  has  not 
educated  me." 

The  clergyman  leapt  to  his  feet  as  if  animated  by 
an  electric  shock. 

"Then  it  was  you  two,"  he  cried,  "that  were  to- 
gether last  night?  I  do  hope  and  pray  that  each  of 
you  discovered  the  other!" 

She  looked  away. 

"I  think,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  he  is  rather  a  fine 
little  chap — full  of  guts,  you  know — the  sort  of  fel- 
low who  would  always  begin  again."  She  pulled  a 
bunch  of  weeds  from  her  side  and  threw  them  up 
into  the  air,  then  she  laughed.  "Heaven  knows,"  she 
said,  "what  he  thinks  about  me!" 

"Exactly !"  He  almost  shouted  the  word.  "Don't 
you  see  that  with  a  chap  like  that  Heaven's  the  only 
place  that  ever  will  know?" 

224 


"A  TEXT  FOR  THE  VICAR" 

The  Reverend  John  was  on  his  feet  by  now, 
gesticulating  extravagantly  amongst  the  foliage. 

"Naturally,"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  "he  wouldn't 
give  it  away  anywhere  else,  would  he?" 

"Men  like  Cumbers,"  said  the  Reverend  John, 
"are  afraid  to  tell  everything  that  they  feel  even  to 
God." 

He  stood  on  the  gravel  path  and  pointed  an  ac- 
cusing finger  at  her. 

"You  cannot  escape  me  now,"  he  said.  "How 
did  you  manoeuvre  such  a  divine  indiscretion?" 

"I  didn't  manoeuvre  it  at  all,"  she  answered,  and 
told  him  the  whole  story  of  the  night  in  the  Kentish 
lane. 

At  the  end  of  the  recital  the  old  gentleman  plunged 
again  into  the  weeds  beside  her  like  a  boy  of 
eighteen. 

"How  splendid,"  he  said.  "How  perfectly  splen- 
did!" 

"Why?"  she  asked,  surprised  at  his  sudden  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Don't  you  see,"  he  returned,  "that  no  situation 
on  earth  could  have  given  you  two  a  glimpse  of  one 
another,  except  that?" 

"Do  you  think,"  asked  Iris,  "that  Mr.  Cumbers 
really  saw  a  bit  of  me?" 

"Of  course  he  did,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "as 
much  as  he  was  able !  The  human  brain  is  like  the 
lens  of  a  camera:  it  records  only  according  to  its 
power." 

225 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

He  took  her  hand,  and  the  old  eyes  under  the 
bushy  brows  became  all  of  a  sudden  piercing  and 
insistent. 

"What  did  yours  record?"  he  asked. 

"A — a  very  splendid  little  man,"  she  answered 
hesitatingly,  and  then  added,  with  a  note  of  defiance, 
"and  one  with  whom  I  couldn't  get  on  for  five 
minutes!" 

"Of  course  you  can't  get  on  with  him,"  said  the 
Reverend  John,  "why  should  you?  It  isn't  getting 
on  with  people  that  matters;  it's  being  fond  of 
them." 

He  got  up  and  paced  up  and  down  the  path  in  front 
of  her. 

"How  like  you,"  he  chuckled,  "how  very  like 
you!" 

"What  was?"  asked  Iris. 

"To  steal  a  car  and  a  coat  and  spend  the  night  in 
a  lane  all  for  the  sake  of  a  man  you  cannot  get  on 
with!" 

"It  was  awfully  silly  of  me,"  she  said.  "I  acted 
on  the  impulse  of  the  moment." 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  protested,  "don't,  for  good- 
ness' sake,  excuse  the  most  splendid  thing  you  have 
done  since  I  have  known  you !" 

"And  supposing  everybody  here  says  it  was  a 
scandalous  thing  to  do!" 

"I  cannot  imagine,"  answered  the  old  gentleman, 
"anything  of  less  importance  than  what  people  say 
— just  as,"  he  added,  "nothing  is  more  important 

226 


"A  TEXT  FOR  THE  VICAR" 

than  what  people  do."  He  was  smiling  at  her,  his 
eyes  twinkling,  and  the  infectious  sympathy  of  the 
man  made  her  stretch  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  took 
it,  and  she  drew  him  down  beside  her  once  more. 

"Daddy,"  she  said,  "I  am  twenty-six,  and  there 
are  still  a  great  many  things  that  I  do  not  under- 
stand." 

"I  am  sixty-eight,"  he  returned  gravely,  "and 
there  is  nothing  whatever  that  I  understand."  And 
then,  seeing  that  she  was  in  a  communicative  mood, 
"Say  on,"  he  added  gently. 

She  stared  into  the  weeds  and,  because  she  was 
half  talking  to  herself,  she  brought  her  thoughts 
naked  out  of  her  brain. 

"He  tucked  me  up  in  the  rugs,"  she  said,  "and 
went  away  and  prayed.  He  prayed  for  ages — on  his 
knees  in  the  road.  He  must  have  taken  the  skin  off 
his  knees,  praying  like  that!" 

"That  is  an  eccentricity  of  routine,"  murmured 
the  Reverend  John.  "People  don't  pray  with  their 
knees.  I  knew  a  man,'  he  added,  "who  could  only 
pray  in  his  bath.  His  wife  thought  it  was  irrever- 
ent." 

"Do  you?"  she  asked. 

"I  consider,"  he  replied,  "that  it  is  a  matter  for 
God  to  decide.  But  there  are  many  wives  who  take 
upon  themselves  these  decisions.  Personally,  I  think 
it  is  a  mistake.  One  marries  a  woman,  not  a  religion. 
I  can  quite  easily  imagine  a  Plymouth  Brother  hap- 
pily mated  to  a  sun-worshipper.  That  is,"  he  went 

227 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

on,  "if  they  were  both  wise  enough — and  happy 
enough — to  know  that  there  is  a  divinity  both  in  the 
dissenter  and  in  the  sun."  He  broke  off  abruptly. 
"Getting  away  from  the  point  as  usual,"  he  said. 
"What  were  you  going  to  say?" 

"Only,"  she  answered,  "that  I  can't  pray  at  all!" 

"Why  does  that  worry  you?"  he  asked. 

She  rose  and  stretched  her  arms  wide,  just  the 
same  gesture,  he  remembered,  that  he  had  seen  her 
use  that  night  on  the  heath,  when  she  was  invoking 
Bacchus  and  Pan. 

"Because,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  at  all  sure  I  don't 
want  to  1" 

He  nodded  slowly. 

"That  is  interesting,"  he  said;  "it  rather  bears  out 
a  theory  of  mine." 

"What  theory?"  she  asked. 

"Why,"  he  returned,  "that  sooner  or  later  almost 
everyone  discover!  that  they  are  as  interested  in  God 
as  He  is  in  them." 

"What  about  criminals?"  she  threw  at  him, 
"murderers?" 

"I  said  'sooner  or  later,'  "  he  returned.  "I  admit 
that  discovery  after  death  is  very  late — but  better 
late  than  never,  eh?" 

She  looked  at  him  keenly,  for  such  simple  faith, 
in  one  whom  she  had  decided  long  ago  was  so  very 
wise,  appeared  a  little  astonishing. 

"Nobody  ever  taught  me  to  pray,"  she  said,  and 
he  laughed. 

228 


"A  TEXT  FOR  THE  VICAR" 

"The  only  thing  at  which  you  are  an  amateur?" 
he  chuckled,  and  added:  "I  have  always  liked 
amateurs!" 

He  shook  himself  suddenly,  like  a  great,  shaggy 
dog,  and  got  up. 

uThese  weeds,"  he  said,  "are  terribly  damp.  I 
felt  a  twinge  of  rheumatism.  You  oughtn't  to  be  sit- 
ting here  in  that  thin  dress!" 

She  rose  also  and  discovered  that  her  frock  was 
wet. 

"You  must  change  immediately,"  she  said  seri- 
ously. "We  have  been  lying  in  a  perfect  bath!" 

She  was  shivering  as  they  returned  towards  the 
house. 

"What  became  of  the  car?"  he  asked. 

"I  got  a  man  from  a  garage  to  take  it  back  to 
Mr.  Strickland,"  she  said. 

"And  Cumbers?" 

"He  went  on  to  Dover  by  train." 

"I  hope,"  said  the  old  man,  "that  he  finds  his  son 
better." 

"Oh,"  she  answered,  "that — that  was  just  what  I 
wanted  to  pray  about!" 

They  were  on  the  doorstep,  and  she  became  sud- 
denly embarrassed. 

"I've  been  fearfully  silly,"  she  said;  and  then,  in- 
consequently:  "I  wrote  a  note  to  Mr.  Strickland." 

He  was  just  going  in,  but  at  her  remark  he  turned 
again. 

229 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"I'd  very  much  like  to  know,"  he  asked,  "what 
you  wrote  to  him?" 

She  laughed. 

"Really,"  she  said,  "I  didn't  know  what  to  say. 
I  just  put  'Dear  Mr.  Strickland,  I  wanted  a  car  sud- 
denly to  get  to  Dover,  so  I  took  yours.  I  think  it's 
all  right  again.' ' 

The  Reverend  John  roared  with  laughter. 

"What  a  perfectly  wonderful  note,"  he  said.  "It 
will  provide  that  young  man  with  an  after-dinner 
story  for  the  rest  of  his  life  1" 

"He  struck  me,"  she  returned,  "as  being  very 
much  in  need  of  one.  I  hope,"  she  added,  "that  you 
didn't  mind  me  coming  round?  I  believe  you  ought 
to  have  been  composing  your  sermon?" 

"You  have  provided  it,"  he  answered,  "in  the  mad 
adventure  of  last  night!" 

"Oh,"  she  said  eagerly,  "what  will  be  your  text?" 

He  thought  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly  took  her 
hands  in  his. 

"Corinthians,"  he  answered,  "chapter  four,  verse 
ten:  'We  are  fools,  for  Christ's  sake  I' ' 

"Then  you  think  I  was  a  fool?"  she  asked  at  the 
gate. 

"Yes,"  he  returned,  "a  fool  for  Christ's  sake — 
it  is  my  conception  of  wisdom." 


Had  he  been,  in  very  truth,  a  wise  man,  he  would 
have  changed  his  wet  clothes  before  going  round  to 

230 


"A  TEXT  FOR  THE  VICAR" 

the  post  office  to  send  a  prepaid  telegram  to  the 
military  hospital  at  Dover.  But,  in  this  kind, 
the  Reverend  John  had  always  been  an  absolute 
idiot. 


231 


CHAPTER  XIX 
"THE  BEGINNINGS" 

THE  next  morning  on  her  breakfast-table  Iris  found 
one  solitary  letter.  The  round,  clerkly  character  of 
the  handwriting  gave  it  all  the  odium  of  a  bill,  and 
she  picked  it  up  and  threw  it  down  again  on  the  table 
with  all  the  more  petulance  because  she  had  been 
expecting  a  letter  from  Andrea  for  some  days  and  it 
had  not  arrived.  However,  at  that  period  of  break- 
fast which  may  be  called  the  marmalade  stage 
(though  Iris  had  a»passion  for  black-currant  jam 
and  never  ate  anything  else),  she  opened  the  letter. 
Being  a  thoroughly  womanly  woman  she  puzzled 
over  the  address,  which  simply  read,  "8,  Sea  View 
Terrace,"  and  wondered  for  a  long  time  from  whom 
it  could  have  come  without  thinking  of  looking  at  the 
signature.  At  length  she  did  turn  to  the  end  of  the 
letter  and  there  found  the  name  "H.  Cumbers"  just 
as  he  had  been  taught  to  write  it  some  thirty-five 
years  ago  by  a  schoolmaster  who  really  believed  that 
the  Greek  "R"  was  a  sin  in  itself.  She  turned  back 
to  the  beginning,  interested  to  read  what  he  had  got 
to  say  to  her. 

232 


"THE  BEGINNINGS" 

The  letter  ran  as  follows: 

"DEAR  MADAME  IRANOVNA, — I  feel  that  I  ought 
to  write  and  thank  you  for  your  great  kindness  in  at- 
tempting to  take  me  to  Dover  last  night.  I  am 
especially  indebted  to  you  inasmuch  as  I  realise  that 
your  goodness  was  quite  uncalled  for.  They  have,  I 
am  thankful  to  say,  pronounced  my  son  out  of  danger 
this  afternoon.  He  was  bayoneted  in  the  thigh, 
where  blood-poisoning  set  in  almost  immediately. 
Unfortunately,  he  will  never  walk  quite  freely  again. 
Under  the  circumstances,  however,  one  is  naturally 
thankful  that  it  is  no  worse. 

"Yours  sincerely,     H.  CUMBERS." 

Underneath  the  little  stiff  sentences  Iris  seemed 
still  to  see  the  implacable  disapproval  which  the 
churchwarden  felt  towards  her  and  her  world.  It 
read,  she  thought,  exactly  like  a  bread-and-butter  let- 
ter after  a  rather  formal  week-end.  Yet,  there  it 
was.  He  had  considered  it  his  duty  to  write  to  her 
and  let  her  know  the  state  of  affairs  at  Dover,  and 
that  he  himself  was  grateful  to  her  for  her  "at- 
tempt." That  he  considered  her  perfectly  hare- 
brained to  have  made  it,  she  had  no  doubt,  yet,  as 
she  held  the  clerkly  note  in  her  hand,  she  could  not 
help  feeling  how  very  like  Cumbers  this  was.  An 
unpleasant  duty  (doubly  so  in  telling  her  anything 
to  do  with  Tristram)  inexorably  done.  Had  their 
positions  been  reversed  Iris  could  see  herself  either 
writing  pages  and  pages  of  thanks  for  that  same 

233 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"attempt,"  or  else  forgetting  to  write  at  all.  She 
answered  the  letter  shortly,  simply  congratulating 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cumbers  on  Tristram's  recovery  and 
not  without  a  smile  as  she  penned  the  lines — wish- 
ing to  be  remembered  to  him. 

It  was  after  lunch  that  Iris  began  to  feel  lonely. 
The  last  twenty-four  hours  had  been  altogether  too 
serious.    She  felt  the  need  of  relaxation,  and  started 
to  get  it  by  doing  her  hair  several  different  ways  11 
front  of  her  pier-glass.  With  some  women  relaxation 
is  practically  synonymous  with  admiration,  and  Ins 
soon  sat  down  in  the  armchair  by  the  side  of  her 
wardrobe  and  wondered  what  she  had  done  to  de- 
serve such  desolation.     She  needed  Andrea  at  this 
moment,  big,  handsome,  slow-minded  Andrea  who 
could  always  be  tempted  into  making  one  of  those 
clumsy  compliments  of  his  which  she  loved  so  well. 
And  Andrea  was  miles  away  fighting  in  this  ridiculous 
war!    As  for  the  Reverend  John,  she  knew  that  he 
did  admire  her  and  that  she  amused  him  and  he  was, 
of  course,  a  delightful  companion  and  a  most  lovable 
old  gentleman,  and  it  was  perfectly  marvellous  the 
way  in  which  he  managed  to  disguise  his  samtlmess. 
Still,  after  all,  he  was  an  old  gentleman,  and  youth, 
as  everybody  knows,  demands  its  fellow.     So  now 
Iris  sat  in  her  chair,  dropped  cigarette  ash  on  to  her 
carpet  and  fell  into  a  melancholy.   She  reviewed  h 
sojourn  in  Suburbia  with  a  little  frown  on  her  fore- 
head.      She    remembered   her   conversation   m  1 

234 


"THE  BEGINNINGS" 

Cavendish  grill-room  with  Andrea  (what  centuries 
ago  it  seemed  now!). 

"In  Heaven's  name,"  he  said,  "why  do  you  want 
to  go  and  become  a  suburban  nun?" 

And  she  remembered  how  she  had  answered  him. 

"I  want  to  sort  myself  a  little,  I  want  to  live  right 
away  from  my  own  entourage  and  discover  why 
Maurice  and  I  were  a  failure." 

Well,  she  told  herself  now,  she  had  discovered 
that.  Or,  was  it  the  Reverend  John  who,  quite  un- 
wittingly, had  shown  her  why  that  first  marriage 
could  never  hope  to  have  been  a  success?  At  any 
rate,  she  knew  Maurice  had  been  a  dear,  a  perfect 
dear,  but  he  went  very  little  deeper  than  his  good  na- 
ture and  his  good  manners.  She  herself  had  imagined 
that  she  was  of  this  kind;  the  brilliant  butterfly,  the 
froth  upon  the  crest  of  the  wave,  content  when  the 
wave  breaks  to  be  swallowed  up  with  a  dying  hiss 
upon  the  shingle,  and  never  in  her  short  ride  upon 
its  surface  to  have  disturbed  the  ocean  one  little  jot! 

Ah,  well,  she  thought,  considering  that  she  had 
never  imagined  her  existence  herself,  it  could  hardly 
be  said  to  be  Maurice's  fault  that  he  had  failed  to 
discover  the  "other  lady."  That  (amazing  thought!) 
had  been  left  to  the  aged  vicar  of  an  English  suburb. 

She  had  been  wonderfully  happy,  frothing  and 
bubbling  away  on  the  crest  of  her  very  splendid 
wave ;  there  had  been  dances  at  Vienna,  the  remem- 
brance of  which  still  brought  the  light  to  her  eyes, 
supper  parties  at  Moscow  she  could  recall,  hours  of 

235 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

sheer  abandoned  joy  in  existence.  This  "other  lady" 
was  a  much  graver  proposition,  less  brilliant,  per- 
haps, and  less — bubbly.  Yet  when  the  wave  crashed 
finally  upon  the  relentless  shingle,  somehow  she  felt 
the  other  lady  could  survive;  curl  back  again,  per- 
haps, into  the  sea  of  things,  fathoms  deep  this  time 
and  directing  the  swell:  no  longer  riding  on  some 
tolerant  monster  of  a  billow,  crackling  and  spitting 
and  bubbling  to  cover  its  ineffectuality,  but  down  be- 
low, working,  straining — fighting! 

And  as  this  last  word  crept  into  her  mind  her 
thoughts  went  headlong  to  Andrea,  to  Tristram,  to 
all  the  hundreds  of  men  she  had  known  and  who 
must  now  be  fighting;  like  players  in  a  pageant  they 
marched  through  her  brain,  men  with  an  ideal  to 
which  they  clung — even  as  far  as  that  final  crash 
upon  the  shingle — men  whose  souls  were  wiser  than 
their  brains  and  who  saw  beyond  the  seething  of  the 
sea  to  that  at  which  the  whole  great  ocean  was  point- 
ing, froth,  swell,  storm  and  all;  a  work,  a  harmony, 
a  universe  which  came — she  recalled  a  vivid  phrase 
of  the  Reverend  John — "within  a  telephone  call  of 
Heaven." 

A  smell  of  burning  brought  her  back  to  her  suburb 
with  a  rush.  Her  cigarette,  long  since  dropped  upon 
the  floor,  was  making  havoc  with  the  carpet.  She 
got  up  and  threw  it  into  the  fender,  and  actually 
laughed  at  the  little  black-brown  hole  in  the  carpet. 
For  the  moment  she  had  become  the  "other  lady," 
body  and  soul.  But  the  accident  had  broken  the 

236 


"THE  BEGINNINGS" 

thread  of  her  thoughts,  and  not  many  minutes  latep 
she  used  some  very  angry  words  over  that  same 
burn. 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said  finally,  "that  I  don't  often  get 
into  a  mood  like  that;  bother  the  old  clergyman  I" 

Yet,  though  she  called  it  a  mood,  she  knew  well 
enough  that  that  was  not  the  whole  truth,  and,  since 
this  knowledge  worried  her  so  much  that  she  could 
not  keep  still,  she  started  out  for  a  walk.    The  walk 
and    my     chapter    finish     almost     simultaneously, 
dramatically,  foolishly,  even  outrageously.     She  met 
Ferdinand  Madders,  that  sporting  nonentity  who  had 
been  the  foremost  of  the  Magi  (as  far  as  worship 
was  concerned)  after  the  very  brilliant  garden  party. 
Now,  after  a  much  more  brilliant  recitation,  things 
appeared  to  be  very  different.    It  is  true  that  Mad- 
ders looked  at  her — looked  at  her  intensely  and  of- 
fensively;  just  because  she  was  beautiful  and  alive, 
and  because  Madders  was  equally  alive  but  infinitely 
less  beautiful.    Then  he  cut  her  deliberately,  with  all 
the  amazing  rectitude  which  only  a  complete  cad  can 
command.     He  had,  however,  reckoned  without  his 
antagonist.     Iris,  plumbing  the  deeps  of  things,  was 
in  no  mood  to  be  cut  by  Ferdinand  Madders.     Her 
temper  seethed  and  bubbled  up  with  a  rush,  and  al- 
most immediately  reached  the  point  where  some- 
thing had  to  be  broken.    But  in  the  open  road  there 
is  nothing  to  break.    In  two  long,  unladylike  strides 
she  had  caught  up  the  people's  warden.    She  seized 

237 


that  unsuspecting  gentleman  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat 
and  swung  him  round  to  her. 

"You  middle-aged  puppy!"  she  blazed  at  him, 
"say  'good  afternoon!' ' 

Ferdinand  Madders  was  taken  completely  by  sur- 
prise, and  his  teeth  chattered  idiotically. 

"Up — upon — m — my  soul,",  he  began,  but  the 
hurricane  of  her  rage  cut  him  short. 

"Say  'good  afternoon!'  "  she  raged. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  the  astonished  man 
caught  sight  of  an  acquaintance  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road.  He  forced  a  smile  to  his  face. 

"Good  afternoon,"  he  said,  and,  utterly  demoral- 
ised, sought  to  escape  with  that. 

But  as  he  turned  away  her  hand  shot  out,  removed 
his  hat  like  lightning,  and  put  it  in  his  hand,  thus  con- 
verting, with  a  gesture,  a  retreat  into  a  rout.  The 
respectable  citizen  on  the  opposite  path  stood  aghast. 
Then  a  solution  occurred  to  him.  He  was  still  look- 
ing for  a  cinematograph  operator  when  Iris  had 
turned  the  corner.  As  for  that  lady,  she  started  out 
on  her  walk  much  like  an  angry  sandstorm,  whirling 
along,  wishing  only  for  something  which  she  could 
destroy,  vengeful  all  the  more  because,  in  her  heart, 
she  knew  there  was  nothing  to  avenge,  raging  because 
she  knew  that  it  was  the  storm  in  her  own  soul  which 
was  tossing  her  this  way  and  that,  and  causing  -her 
to  wonder  why,  when  she  so  loved  the  froth,  she  yet 
could  not  be  happy  without  the  swell.  Knowing  not 
in  the  least  what  direction  she  had  taken,  she  stopped 

238 


suddenly  as  people  do  who  unwittingly  chance  upon 
a  remembered  spot.    It  was  that  little  sandy  hillock 
upon  which  the  old  clergyman  and  the  neurotic  hero 
had  found  her  praying  to  Pan.     She  seated  herself 
upon  its  summit,  and  realised  for  the  first  time  that 
it  commanded  an  unique  view  of  the  little  suburB 
which  had  been  the  crucible  of  her  metamorphosis. 
There  was  the  church  to  which,  indeed,   distance 
loaned  a  great  deal  of  enchantment,  and  where,  she 
thought  to  herself,  that  amazing  old  clergyman  spent 
his  "office  hours."    And  there  (she  traced  the  route 
from  the  vicarage,  as  nearly  as  she  could)  was  Mr. 
Cumbers's  house,  and  next  to  it  her  own.    And  away 
on  the  left  that  building  with  the  gilded  super-fretted 
dome  must  be  the  music-hall  where  the  terrible  recita- 
tion had  been  delivered.     There  it  all  was  laid  out 
before  her,  rather  like  toys  seen  by  a  grown-up  upon 
a  nursery  floor.     And,  just  as  toys  have  meant  a 
great  deal  more  in  life  than  they  have  ever  been 
given   credit   for,    so   those    diminutive   landmarks 
thrilled  her  now.     She  recalled  great  ballrooms  of 
Southern     Europe,     theatres,     gambling     palaces, 
cathedrals    of    Russia    and    Turkey,    architectural 
miracles  which  these  puny  folk  had  never  heard  of, 
much  less  seen,  and  wondered  how  it  was  that  the 
stunted   church   and  the   deliberately  differentiated 
slated  roofs  moved  her  so  much  more  than  those 
other  wonders  had  ever  dpne.     And  as  she  looked 
over  this  most  ordinary  view  of  a  most  ordinary  part 
of  the  world,  the  whole  scene  appeared  to  merge  in 

239 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

her  mind  with  the  personality  of  one  old  man,  a  per- 
sonality which  has  recurred  throughout  the  ages, 
fitting  itself  as  occasion  demanded  to  empires, 
palaces,  hovels,  tin  churches,  or  even  suburban 
homes,  yet  always  leaving  its  mark  behind,  the  im- 
press of  an  accredited  ambassador  of  the  court  of 
God. 


240 


CHAPTER  XX 

"THE  BIRTH" 

IRIS  found  herself  inexplicably  happy.  Inexplicable 
because  none  of  her  usual  stimulants  were  at  hand. 
There  was  no  opportunity  for  her  to  shine  at  parties 
or  at-homes.  No  one  was  left  to  sit  at  her  feet  and 
worship;  in  fact,  for  almost  three  weeks  Iris  was 
quite  alone.  And  yet  she  found  herself  happy.  Being 
Iris,  she  puzzled  over  the  matter,  but  she  came  to  no 
conclusion. 

It  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  one  brought  up 
in  an  atmosphere  beside  which  the  childish  and  often 
merely  philosophical  immoralities  of  the  Cafe  Royal 
would  have  seemed  just  wild  oats,  should  discover 
the  reason  of  her  curious  sense  of  well-being.  How 
should  she  guess  that  in  the  maelstrom  of  emotions 
which  went  to  make  up  her  temperament,  order, 
brought  to  birth  like  most  of  character's  children,  by 
a  series  of  fortuitous  circumstances,  was  at  last 
emerging  from  chaos? 

A  harmony  was  coming  to  light  built  of  those  sweet 
sounds  and  hideous  discords,  the  welter  and  struggle 
of  which  had  made  up  the  life  of  Iris.  All  she  knew 
was  that  somewhere  in  herself  a  new  experience  was 

241 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

stirring — too  small  as  yet  to  realise  its  nature,  but 
most  certainly  stirring.  Yet  there  was  one  thing 
more  needed  before  this  harmony  could  be  borne  and 
live. 

Ten  days  later  Iris  was  sitting  in  her  garden,  her 
"Decameron"  on  her  lap,  watching,  through  half- 
closed  eyes,  the  glint  of  the  sun  on  the  gold  fleur- 
de-lys  which  splashed  across  the  green  panel  of  her 
Florentine  tea-gown,  and  imagining  with  its  aid  that 
she  herself  was  a  queen  in  Boccaccio's  little  company. 
She  was  just  starting  to  devise  a  story  of  her  own, 
not  unworthy  to  take  its  place  with  the  others,  when 
she  became  aware  that  someone  was  looking  at  her. 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  Tristram.  He  was 
standing  behind  the  ridiculous  little  box-hedge  pre- 
cisely where  he  had  stood  and  been  tormented  by  her 
in  the  days  which  were  already  called  pre-war  and 
were  beginning  to  seem  prehistoric.  He  was  very  thin 
and  the  smile  which  had  seemed  weak  and  silly  be- 
fore the  war  seemed  somehow  to  have  lost  its  fool- 
ishness now  that  it  was  framed  in  the  white,  drawn 
face. 

"Sorry,"  he  said.    "Have  I  woken  you  up?" 

She  started  at  his  voice.  She  would  not  have 
recognised  it. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  "I  was  not  asleep — only 
day-dreaming.  I  hope  you  are  better." 

"Top-hole,"  he  replied.  And  she  remembered  a 
conversation — also  prehistoric — in  which  Tristram 
had  contended  that  the  use  of  slang  was  not  only 

242 


"THE  BIRTH" 

undignified  but  argued  a  deplorable  lack  of  vocabu- 
lary. 

"May  I  have  a  talk  with  you?"  he  said. 

"Of  course,"  she  replied,  and  was  astonished  to 
see  a  long  leg  lift  itself  over  the  hedge  at  the  in- 
vitation. She  realised  that  she  was  going  to  talk  to 
a  stranger. 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  sit  down?"  he  asked,  "if  1 
stand  for  long  I  get  a  bit  giddy." 

"Do  have  my  chair,"  she  said,  "how  thoughtless 
lam!"  And  she  got  up. 

"O'f  course  I  shouldn't  dream "  he  began,  and 

swayed  a  little.  She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders 
as  he  dropped  into  the  chair.  In  the  prehistoric  days, 
she  remembered,  what  might  not  have  happened  had 
she  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders? 

"The  grass  is  as  dry  as  a  bone,"  she  said.  "I  will 
sit  at  your  feet." 

The  boy  smiled. 

"It  seems  all  wrong,  doesn't  it,"  he  murmured, 
"for  you  to  be  sitting  at  my  feet?" 

"You  wanted  to  talk?"  asked  Iris. 

"Yes,"  he  returned.  "I  heard  about  that  night 
with  the  car.  It  was  awfully  sporting.  Just  the 
sort  of  thing  I'd  have  expected  of  you  1" 

"But  I  didn't  get  there,"  said  the  Russian.  "And 
that's  just  the  sort  of  thing  I  should  have  expected 
of  myself,"  she  added. 

"Anyway,"  he  went  on,  "thanks  awfully.  But  that 
wasn't  what  I  came  to  talk  about."  He  hesitated  and 

243 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

gazed  at  his  boots.    "You  must  have  thought  me  an 
awful  ass,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  asked. 

"The  Army!"  he  answered  shortly.  "I  hated  it, 
Iris,  I'm  not  going  to  pretend  that  I  discovered  a 
'wonderful  sense  of  comradeship'  or  'the  sheer  joy 
of  physical  fitness.'  The  fellows  who  write  that  stuff 
are  jolly  thankful  to  be  in  a  comfortable  office  to  do 
it.  And,  anyway,  it  isn't  everyone's  ideal  of  fitness 
to  feel  like  a  farm  labourer.  I  suppose  till  after  the 
war  we  shall  all  have  to  pretend  that  the  Army  is  the 
finest  life  in  the  world.  But  it's  all  rot;  pigging  it 
and — doing  beastly  things  one  didn't  really  believe 
in  when  one  read  them  in  the  papers."  His  eyes 
wandered  away  and  she  saw  in  them  a  look  which 
somehow  made  her  think  again  of  his  last  words  to 
her  before  he  had  gone,  "You  can  think  of  me  in  a 
terrible  funk  .  .  .  being  sick." 

"Of  course,"  he  went  on,  "it  had  to  be  done.  But 
so  have  lots  of  unpleasant  things,  I  suppose."  He 
added,  characteristically  twisting  his  subject  about, 
"It's  a  question  of  temperament.  If  you  like  it,  you 

like  it;  if  you  don't "  He  sighed  and  then  smiled. 

"It  didn't  take  them  long,"  he  said,  "to  tell  me  I  was 
an  ass!  Quite  right.  I  was.  Then  I  got  stuck  in 
the  thigh  because  I  tripped  on  a  sandbag  and  fell  on 
to  a  Hun's  bayonet."  He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "And 
now,"  he  chuckled,  "as  far  as  I  can  see  we're  both 
heroes,  that  Hun  and  me!" 

Iris  said  nothing.    She  was  interested. 
244 


"THE  BIRTH" 

"I'm  not  the  stuff  heroes  are  made  of,"  he  said 
at  last.  "I'm  not  sure  I'm  the  stuff  that  anything  is 
made  of.  Some  of  the  things  done  out  there — well, 
I  tell  you,  Iris,  even  in  my  short  bit  I've  seen  chaps 
do  things  which  made  me  believe  in  Achilles  and  all 
those  old  guys.  But  I  didn't  want  to  talk  to  you 
about  the  war.  First  of  all,  I  wanted  to  apologise." 

"Apologise?"  Iris  sat  up  straight  and  stared  at 
him.  "What  in  the  world  for?" 

"For  making  such  a  fool  of  myself  over  you,"  he 
answered  simply.  "I  see  now  what  a  stupid  kind  of 
cad  you  must  have  thought  me." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Russian.  "I've  had 
lots  of  men  fall  in  love  with  me,  you  know!" 

"Naturally,"  he  replied,  and  she  marvelled  at  his 
ease  of  manner;  "but  I'm  afraid  you  were  my  first 
— my  first,"  he  hesitated  and  then  plunged,  "you  were 
my  first  calf-love,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  sure  I  behaved 
much  too  seriously.  I  must  have  fed  you  up  most 
frightfully!" 

Now  the  purging  of  Iris  had  been  far  less  drastic 
than  the  medicine  which  Tristram  had  been  forced 
to  take  and,  consequently,  her  cure  was  slower.  She 
reverted  to  type  immediately. 

"So  you  are  no  longer  in  love  with  me?"  she 
asked. 

"You  could  very  easily  make  me  fall  in  love  with 
you  again,"  answered  Tristram,  "but  I  should  know 
all  the  time  it  was  only  a  game.  That's  the  difference, 
you  see.  I  didn't  know  before.  I — I'm  grateful  to 

245 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

the  Army  for  telling  me  what  a  damned  fool  I  was ; 
and,"  he  added,  "I'm  grateful  to  you  for  not  telling 
me  when  I  was  gassing  all  that  rot  to  you !" 

Like  many  men  in  their  dealings  with  women,  he 
was  buying  back  his  folly  at  far  too  great  an  interest. 
Grateful  indeed  I  Had  he  been  half  as  nice  as  he 
was  and  twice  as  old,  he  would  have  known  how  much 
she  had  enjoyed  "all  that  rot." 

"I  just  thought,"  he  said  finally,  "that  I'd  like  to 
tell  you  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  my  making  a  fool 
of  myself  any  more." 

"Look  here,"  said  the  Russian,  "you're  fooling 
yourself,  Tristram,  or  else  you're  fooling  me !  Surely 
you  know  I  enjoyed  every  minute  of  it?" 

He  looked  up  and  met  her  eyes. 

"No.  I  didn't  know,"  he  answered  simply,  and 
then  he  laughed.  "We  are  being  very  frank  with 
one  another,  aren't  we?" 

"I  suppose,"  said  Iris,  with  a  slight  curl  of  the  lip, 
"that  you  think  it  was  very  bad  form  on  my  part?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "You  see,  a  boy  of  my  age 
has  no  right  to  be  as  ignorant  as  I  am." 

There  was  something  wistful  in  the  very  truth  of 
this  confession,  something  that  touched  at  once  one 
of  those  sweet  sounds  which  were  always  jostling  the 
discords  in  the  girl's  nature.  She  put  her  hand  on 
his. 

"Don't  be  morbid,"  she  laughed;  "morbidity  is 
246 


"THE  BIRTH" 

only  forgiven  in  those  very  old  people  who  have  hard 
work  to  forget  their  mistakes." 

She  began  to  think  that  Tristram's  short  experi- 
ence as  a  soldier  had  bitten  rather  deep. 

"But,  you  know,"  he  was  saying,  "I  really  did 
worship  you  at  the  time." 

"I  should  have  been  furious,"  she  replied,  "if  you 
had  not." 

Tristram  answered  nothing,  and  it  was  Muriel's 
voice  that  broke  the  silence.  Her  remark  was 
characteristic  of  the  girl. 

"Milk  and  bed,  please,"  she  said. 

Tristram  sighed  and  got  up. 

"I'm  a  slave  to  the  milk  habit,"  he  laughed,  "and 
bed  is  growing  on  me  fearfully!"  He  turned  to 
Muriel.  "All  right,  dear,"  he  said,  "I'm  coming!" 

He  climbed  over  the  box-hedge  and  Muriel  took 
his  arm.  Iris  watched  them  cross  the  little  lawn  and 
disappear  through  the  French  windows.  Not  long 
ago  she  would  have  laughed  at,  even  pitied  this  dis- 
passionate betrothal.  Now  she  found  herself  dis- 
covering that  love,  like  everything  else,  has  more 
than  one  genus  of  its  species.  "Milk  and  bed, 
please,"  she  supposed,  could  compete  quite  success- 
fully with  "worship  and  adoration"  in  the  matter  of 
happy  marriages.  For  all  that,  Iris  was  glad  Andrea 
was  big  and  good-looking.  Her  nature  demanded 
that  her  husband  should  be  a  possible  hero  of  ro- 
mance ;  other  women  must  envy  her  her  chained  giant, 
chained  by  her  hands.  She  realised  how  much  of  the 

247 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

joy  of  her  life  had  been  built  on  other  people's 
jealousy.  She  knew  she  could  not  do  without  it.  She 
smiled  even  now,  as  she  contrasted  Andrea's  great 
strength,  his  attractive  eyes,  with  the  puny  figure  of 
Tristram  Cumbers.  Well,  they  lived  in  different 
worlds,  and  the  little  workaday  boy  and  girl  next 
door  were  welcome  to  their  own  idea  of  happiness. 
She  stretched  out  her  arms  and,  looking  at  her  sur- 
roundings, smiled.  It  was  no  setting  for  her.  Still, 
after  all,  it  wouldn't  be  very  long  before  the  picture 
she  knew  so  well,  from  the  pier-glass  upstairs,  would 
be  in  its  own  frame  again.  Yet,  even  as  the  satisfy- 
ing thought  passed  through  her  mind,  she  was  aware 
of  a  feeling  of  regret,  unaccountable  and,  as  it  hap- 
pened, momentary,  for  she  had  no  time  to  pursue  it 
before  Muriel's  voice  broke  in  upon  her  thoughts 
once  again. 

"He's  getting  better,"  she  said  abruptly,  "but  it 
will  be  a  slow  job." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Iris.     "You  must  be  glad  he 
won't  have  to  go  out  again  1" 

"I  am  thankful,"  she  answered.     "We  are  going 
to  be  married  in  the  autumn." 

"What  a  pity,"  said  Iris,  "that  I  shan't  be  here 
to  be  a  bridesmaid." 

"You  couldn't.    You've  been  married  already." 

Iris  laughed. 

"What  a  terrible,  practical  person  you  are!"  she 
said.  "And  yet — I  remember  some  evenings  we  spent 

together " 

248 


"THE  BIRTH" 

Muriel  broke  in  upon  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "So  do  I.  They  were  wonder- 
ful evenings,  Iris.  I  shan't  ever  forget  them.  They'll 
be  like  a  child's  memories  of  going  to  a  theatre. 
Magic!"  She  broke  off  suddenly  and  looked  away. 
"I'm  glad  I've  got  my  work  cut  out  looking  after 
Tristram."  She  turned  back  and  looked  the  other 
full  in  the  eyes.  "Tristram's  cured,"  she  said,  "but 
I'm  not  at  all  sure  I  am." 

So  even  the  prosaic  Muriel  had  secret  desires 
destined  to  die  slowly  with  the  advancing  years! 
And,  thought  Iris,  Mary  Cumbers  too,  perhaps,  had 
once  known  them,  and  that  absurd  Mrs.  Douglas  and 
Miss  Figgis,  and  even  Mrs.  Jallop  at  the  vicarage ! 
And  who  knows?  For,  after  all,  a  great  deal  of 
everybody's  life  is  made  up  of  the  things  they  never 
say. 

But  the  ridiculous  Iris  was  glad  that  Muriel  still 
felt  the  spell. 

Beyond  the  drawing-room  windows  Henry  Cum- 
bers's  voice,  grumbling  low  like  thunder,  made  itself 
heard. 

"What's  the  use  of  saying  it  was  hung  on  the  peg 
if  it's  not  there  now?  A  panama  hat  doesn't  walk 
about!" 

Then  there  came  the  familiar  answer,  indistin- 
guishable, a  mixture  between  a  bleat  and  a  squeak. 
Iris  caught  Muriel's  eye  and  could  not  help  herself. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  asked,  "that  Tristram  will 
do  that  when  you've  been  married  some  years?" 

249 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"I  daresay,"  said  Muriel.  "Some  men  use  it  as  a 
kind  of  protective  armour  to  make  them  think  they 
are  of  more  importance  than  they  are.  There  are 
worse  vices." 

Now  there  came  another  bleat,  more  prolonged. 
Mary  was  evidently  explaining  something.  The 
audience  waited  for  the  thunder-clap  to  follow.  It 
came  in  a  kind  of  explosive  bark. 

"Ridiculous  nonsense!"  the  voice  rumbled  and 
broke  off.  "No — what  am  I  saying?  I'm  sorry, 
Mary."  It  was  very  gruff  now,  and  Muriel's  eyes 
wore  a  look  of  sheer  astonishment.  "I'm  short  of 
temper — sorry.  I  expect  the  hat's  got — got  behind 
something!" 

"Well,  I  never !"  said  the  girl.  "Whatever  has 
happened  to  him?" 

"Ill,  I  should  think,"  returned  Iris.  She  did  not 
connect  this  portent  with  that  night  on  the  Dover 
road,  nor  did  Henry  himself,  nor  indeed  anyone  ex- 
cept perhaps  that  particular  department  in  Fate's  fac- 
tory which  turns  out  the  goads  which  are  occasionally 
applied  to  the  sleepy  consciences  of  middle-aged  hus- 
bands. Mr.  Cumbers  and  his  wife  appeared  in  the 
garden  now.  Mary  had  a  puzzled  air  on  her  face 
as  who  should  say  "Something  is  wrong  somewhere." 

Henry  removed  his  hat  stiffly  to  Iris,  then  turned 
to  Muriel. 

"I  bought  Tristram  a  bed-jacket  at  Spiers  & 
Pond's  this  morning,"  he  said.  "That  thing  he  had 

250 


"THE  BIRTH" 

on  at  breakfast  was  too  dreadful;  can't  imagine 
where  he  got  it  from." 

Mary  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  sigh. 

"It  was  your  old  blazer,  Henry,"  she  said,  "don't 
you  remember?  I  told  you  it  was  in  my  bottom 
drawer." 

"By  George !"  murmured  the  churchwarden.  "Yes 
— of  course,  I  remember.  Did  I  really  wear  that? 
It  looks  fearfully  loud!" 

Mary  smiled.  It  was  a  smile  half  maternal,  quite 
eternal — a  way  that  women  alone  can  smile. 

"We  liked  it,"  she  said  simply. 

The  little  group  moved  away,  a  tiny  world  in  itself, 
knocking  out  God  knows  what  results  from  the  flint 
and  steel  of  its  personalities.  Iris  watched  them  go. 
She  thought  of  her  first  meeting  with  this  little  uni- 
verse, Tristram's  desperate  passion,  the  party,  the 
Dover  road  with  the  moon  in  some  uncanny  way  act- 
ing as  a  searchlight  on  herself  and  the  churchwarden, 
and  finally  and  most  vividly  there  remained  with  her 
the  picture  of  Henry  Cumbers  raising  his  hat  to  her 
over  the  box-hedge  not  three  minutes  ago.  Some- 
how that  little  absurdity  seemed  to  sum  up  every- 
thing. Surely  he  ought  either  to  have  kissed  her  or 
cut  her.  "The  usual  compromise,"  she  sneered  to 
herself.  "It's  the  price  of  respectability." 

And,  she  reflected,  they  really  were  rather  hope- 
less, these  people.  It  was  all  very  well  to  be  kindly 
and  magnanimous  and  broad-minded  and  the  rest  of 
it,  but  the  truth  was.  she  argued,  that  Henry  Cum- 

251 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

bers  and  his  wife  and  Muriel  and  Tristram  did  play 
desperately  small  parts  in  the  world's  theatre.  Fancy, 
for  instance,  being  kindly  and  magnanimous  to 
Andrea !  The  idea  was  absurd.  His  very  frame  was 
fashioned  in  a  mould  that  must  take  the  stage  where- 
ever  it  was,  take  as  much  of  the  stage,  that  is  to  say, 
as  she  might  see  fit  to  allow  him.  And  there  was  the 
Reverend  John.  He,  too,  was  built  on  the  heroic 
plan,  made  to  play  the  big  scenes  with  the  big  actors. 
Indeed,  she  confessed  to  herself  that  of  all  the  men 
and  women  she  knew  this  old  gentleman  alone  might 
have  had  the  power  to  elbow  her  right  out  of  the 
limelight.  And  here  he  was  right  away  at  the  back 
of  the  stage  doing  the  dumb  talk  among  the  supers 
to  give  animation  to  the  scene  I  But  the  words  he 
said,  for  all  the  audience  never  heard  them,  were  a 
great  deal  better  than  the  words  of  the  play.  Ah, 
well,  she  thought,  one  can  be  good  without  being  a 
saint;  one  can  be  a  work  of  art  without  being  a  mas- 
terpiece. Everyone  to  his  taste,  and,  for  her,  the 
limelight  and  the  hero's  arms.  After  all,  there  is  no 
virtue  in  being  dull. 

Her  maid,  whose  pride  took  the  form  of  demand- 
ing to  be  called  Jacobs  instead  of  her  very  pretty 
Christian  name  of  Rosemary,  brought  out  a  letter. 
She  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Russian  postmark  and 
prepared  to  enjoy  herself.  The  bluntness  of  Andrea's 
love-making  when  he  was  forced,  poor  man,  to  re- 
duce it  to  paper,  always  pleased  her. 

252 


"THE  BIRTH" 

"Jacobs,"  she  said,  "I'll  have  some  of  the 
Chateau  Yquem  for  dinner,  and  my  cornelians." 

The  reflection  of  cornelians  in  Chateau  Yquem  is 
as  near  as  you  can  come  to  oriental  sensations  with- 
out the  real  thing,  and  the  arrival  of  Andrea's  let- 
ters was  generally  made  an  excuse  for  a  tiny  cele- 
bration. The  maid  went  back  to  the  house,  and  Iris 
sat  for  some  moments,  her  hands  folded  over  her 
letter,  deliberately  enjoying  the  delights  of  anticipa- 
tion. It  was  good  to  be  loved  by  this  big  man.  It 
was  especially  good  to  be  loved  by  one  who  was  far 
away,  to  know  that  where  you  are  his  mind  is  focused, 
that  he  is  annihilating  those  thousands  of  miles  with 
his  thoughts.  To  be  loved  from  a  distance  seemed 
more  a  matter  for  pride  than  to  be  loved  where  you 
can  feed  the  springs  of  worship  with  a  thousand  fas- 
cinations. She  turned  over  the  envelope.  An  un- 
known hand  had  penned  the  address.  She  felt  a  sud- 
den rush  of  disappointment,  and,  childlike,  the  tears 
came  to  her  eyes.  Then  it  wasn't  from  Andrea  after 
all.  She  very  nearly  flew  into  a  rage.  The  letter 
had  no  right  not  to  be  from  Andrea,  after  she  had 
taken  all  the  trouble  to  build  up  the  proper  atmos- 
phere for  its  perusal.  However,  she  opened  it.  A 
piece  of  foolscap  paper  was  inside,  and  a  pencilled 
note  was  scrawled  over  it. 

"My  own  darling  girl " 

Iris  started  suddenly.  Who  on  earth Then 

she  looked  at  the  signature.  It  was  Andrea.  Andrea 
writing  with  the  crooked  letters  and  wavy  lines  of  a 

253 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

child!  As  sometimes  happens,  Iris  saw  the  whole 
note  in  a  second — saw  it  like  a  picture  without  con- 
sciously reading  a  line.  She  felt  her  heart  race  sud- 
denly like  an  engine,  and  then  stop  equally  suddenly. 
She  realised  that  she  was  very  cold,  and  noticed  that 
the  letter  was  lying  on  the  grass.  With  a  kind  of 
jerk  she  picked  it  up  and  read  the  ill-formed  words 
slowly  and  deliberately. 

"My  OWN  DARLING  GIRL, — I've  been  pretty 
badly  hit,  and  it  will  be  months  before  I'm  about 
again;  and  then,  dear  little  butterfly,  I  shan't  be  the 
same  man  you  made  that  wonderful  promise  to.  I 
can't  write  much,  so  I've  asked  Sister  Nariev  to  tell 
you  just  what  has  happened  to  me.  I'm  writing  to 
release  you  from  your  engagement.  You  always  said 
you  were  a  butterfly,  dear  heart,  and  I'm  not  the 
right  man  now  for  a  lovely  butterfly  like  you.  You'll 
understand,  I  know.  Don't  torment  your  head  with 
the  novelette  ideas  about  this  kind  of  business.  I 
shall  understand  too,  and,  in  spite  of  the  proverb, 
pity  has  nothing  to  do  with  love.  I'll  always  remem- 
ber how  good  you  were  to  me,  and  I  shall  always 
love  you,  dear,  and  hope  you'll  go  on  being  happy. 
Your  happiness  is  one  of  your  greatest  charms. 

"ANDREA." 

The  postscript,  written  in  the  same  hand  that  had 
addressed  the  envelope,  was  in  Russian: 

"Captain  Andrea  Bakaroff,"  it  ran,  "has  asked  me 
to  tell  you  the  extent  of  his  injuries.  No  one  knows 

254 


"THE  BIRTH" 

exactly  what  happened,  but  he  was  picked  up 
wounded,  and  it  was  probably  a  shell-burst.  He  was 
hit  chiefly  in  the  face  and  the  left  side.  By  a  miracle 
his  sight  is  preserved,  but  the  left  side  of  the  face  is 
paralysed  and  very  much  drawn,  and  will,  I  fear,  al- 
ways be  so.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  his  left  thigh, 
having  had  to  be  operated  upon,  is  permanently 
shortened.  He  will,  however,  be  able  to  walk  with 
a  stick.  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  tell  you  that,  should  you 
be  seeing  Captain  Bakaroff  again,  you  ought  to  be 
prepared  for  a  shock  at  the  change  in  his  appearance. 
"Yours  sincerely, 

"SONIA  NARIEV." 

Iris  took  a  cigarette  from  her  case  and  lit  it  very 
deliberately.  She  was  unhealthily  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  she  was  trying  to  face  the  situation  calmly. 
So  this  ridiculous  war,  whirling  its  thousand  arms 
wildly  in  every  direction,  had  managed  to  strike  her 
at  last.  Andrea  had  been  hit,  and  his  face  was 
paralysed — Andrea's  face  was  paralysed.  There  had 
been  a  man  who  played  a  barrel-organ  near  the  sta- 
tion whose  face  was  paralysed.  He  had  besought 
God  to  bless  her  because  she  had  given  him  half  a 
crown.  And  she  had  given  him  half  a  crown  be- 
cause of  his  face.  And  now  Andrea's  face  was  like 
that.  Wherever  he  went  people  would  be  sorry  for 
him,  ordinary,  stupid,  unblemished  passers-by  would 
pity  him — Henry  Cumbers  would  pity  him.  At  this 
moment  the  thought  of  Henry  Cumbers'  pity  stirred 

255 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

Iris  more  than  anything  else.  Her  face  was  white 
with  passion,  and  the  rage  in  her  eyes  might  have 
frightened  tragedy  itself.  Suddenly,  by  some  trick 
of  memory,  there  flashed  through  her  mind  a  con- 
versation she  had  had  with  the  Reverend  John,  one 
of  the  first.  "A  thunderstorm,"  he  said,  "brings  out 
the  worms,  but  it  kills  the  butterflies !"  And  she  had 
answered:  "One  can  always  avoid  the  storm  by  go- 
ing indoors."  Henry  Cumbers'  storm  had  certainly 
brought  him  out;  she  supposed  now  that  she  would 
have  to  go  indoors. 

How  like  Andrea  his  letter  was !  No  attempt  to 
break  the  news  to  her;  simply  a  blunt  statement  of 
the  fact  and  the  stark  Spartan  unselfishness  of  the  re- 
lease. And,  moreover,  that  bald,  unromantic  com- 
monsense  of  his  at  which  she  had  so  often  laughed, 
was  right.  The  noble  woman  giving  her  life  to  the 
care  of  her  crippled  fiance — Andrea  knew  well 
enough  how  tlie  years  swallowed  up  the  glamour  of 
self-sacrifice,  and  left  only  the  chafing  sore  of  the 
strong  chained  to  the  weak.  How  many  a  kindly 
smile,  accompanying  the  invalid's  beef-tea,  has  hidden 
a  despairing  bitterness  of  spirit  that  is  perilously  near 
hate. 

Yes,  madam,  that  is  a  harsh  saying,  and  I  am  fully 
prepared  to  believe  that  the  hourly,  daily,  yearly  care 
of  your  old  Aunt  Elizabeth  is  a  "deep  and  lasting 
joy"  to  you,  even  though  she  has  nothing  to  leave, 
and  may  last  for  years  in  her  invalid  chair.  You  are 
quite  sincere,  I  know,  and  I  know,  too,  that  wild 

256 


"THE  BIRTH" 

horses  will  not  drag  from  you  those  dreadful  long- 
ings that  creep  into  your  mind  every  now  and  then, 
just  before,  dog-tired,  you  fall  asleep.  And  when,  at 
last,  Aunt  Elizabeth  is  gathered  to  her  fathers,  you 
will  wear  black  at  the  grave-side  and  weep  (though 
the  old  lady  was  always  a  good  woman,  and  it  is 
presumed  that  she  is  already  in  Elysium).  More- 
over, when  your  return  to  the  house  where  the  ser- 
vants have  removed  the  chair  out  of  sight,  "in  case 
it  should  upset  the  mistress" — as  if  it  could  upset  her 
more  than  it  has  been  doing  these  last  ten  years  1 — • 
you  will  drink  your  tea  and  murmur  "it  was  better 
so,"  this  being  the  conventional  Christian  epitaph 
when  old  people  die.  And  these  words  are  the  truest 
you  have  said  for  many  a  long  day,  madam. 

Some  such  thoughts  as  these  were  passing  through 
Iris's  mind  just  now,  as  she  realised  what  Andrea 
meant  when  he  wrote  that  pity  had  nothing  to  do 
with  love.  He  was  right.  He  knew  her  nature;  he 
understood  her  hunger  for  beauty  and  admiration  for 
herself  and  her  belongings.  It  appeared  that  Andrea 
felt  and  thought  more  than  she  had  suspected.  Pity 
she  had  for  him — pity  that  sent  the  tears  rolling 
down  her  cheeks  when  she  thought  of  the  great  frame 
that  in  future  "would  be  able  to  walk  with  a  stick." 
But  love — she  decided  that  her  idea  of  love  did  not 
embrace  this.  A  poor  love  no  doubt,  but  who  can 
help  the  way  she  is  made?  People  would  call  her 
hard — that  was  certain.  They  would  imagine  her 
callous,  brutal.  Few  would  understand  that  she  was 

257 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

merely  refusing  the  pretence  of  giving  him  what  she 
had  not  got  to  give.  She  might  present  him  with  a 
blank  cheque  post-dated  for  years  to  come,  but  sooner 
or  later  the  day  must  fall  due,  and  she  would  have 
lived  those  years  knowing  that  there  was  no  balance 
to  back  it.  After  all,  from  her  own  point  of  view, 
she  had  never  been  certain  thar  she  loved  Andrea — 
not  in  the  marriage  sense.  He  was  a  dear,  and  he 
had  been  very  persistent,  that  was  all.  Now  she 
must  reconstruct  her  future,  leaving  him  out  of  the 
picture.  He  would  soon  learn  to  do  without  her. 

Iris  had  been  brought  up  in  a  hard  school.  It  had 
taught  her  many  things  of  which  she  might  better 
have  lived  in  ignorance,  but,  in  counterpoise,  it  had 
rubbed  into  her  one  lesson  which  nine  out  of  ten 
would  do  well  to  learn.  She  cared  not  one  jot  for 
what  people  might  say  of  her  actions.  If  we  could 
all  say  the  same  the  world  would  be  one  degree 
nearer  the  millennium.  So  many  people's  entire  per- 
sonalities are  wasted  because  of  the  opinions  of  their 
relations,  their  friends  or  even  their  "set."  It  is  a 
disease  that  goes  far  to  clog  the  machinery  of  prog- 
ress; its  germ  is  selfishness,  its  end  sterility.  I  would 
have  every  father  of  twenty  years  realise  that  his  son 
or  daughter  is  going  to  be  wiser  than  he  in  the  course 
of  progress,  is  built,  indeed,  by  virtue  of  time  itself 
to  carry  on  the  torch  farther  than  he  can  ever  see  it. 
Let  him  not  waste  half  a  young  life  exacting  respect 
for  what  he  calls  experience.  Experience  is  mostly 
accident  and  often  merely  a  catalogue  of  follies.  Go 

258 


"THE  BIRTH" 

into  any  West  End  restaurant  you  like  and  you  will 
see  more  childishness  than  ever  you  saw  in  your  child. 
Bow  to  any  judgment  but  your  own,  and  you  are 
behaving  far  more  foolishly  than  your  little  boy  who 
glues  his  wooden  Noah  to  his  yacht  and  believes  in 
sober  truth  that  Admiral  Beatty  sails  the   Round 
Pond  I    This  much  in  defence  of  Iris,  for  I  am  well 
aware  that  there  are  very  many  to  whom  her  im- 
mediate emotions  after  reading  Andrea's  letter  will 
appear  unnatural  and  despicable,   if  only  because 
such  logical  behaviour  in  a  woman  is  wholly  unfash- 
ionable, especially  in  books.  She  crossed  the  lawn  and 
went  into  the  house.     Almost  as  if  she  were  a  dis- 
interested analyst  of  the  catastrophe,  she  began  to 
visualise  her  future  without  Andrea.     She  supposed 
she  would  return  to — and  then  she  broke  off  and  won- 
dered what  place  there  was  to  which  she  could  re- 
turn.    Curious  that  one  who  had  been  everywhere 
had  no  place  now  to  which  it  seemed  worth  while  to 
go !    This  amazing  idea  came  as  a  shock  to  Iris.  Had 
she  not  hugged  to  herself  the  conceit  that  she  was  a 
citizen  of  the  world,  at  home  in  all  four  corners  of 
the  earth?     Home!     Exactly;  that  was  just  what 
was  missing.     And  yet  she  had  rather  despised  the 
homebirds,  telling  herself  that  she  was  one  of  life's 
romantic  freebooters,  for  ever  on  the  wing.    She  sat 
down  in  the  big  armchair  in  her  bedroom.     There 
was  no  doubt  now  that  home  was  very  desirable. 
When  had  she  changed?     Merciless,  as  usual,  with 
her  own  emotions,  but  with  a  tragic  sense  of  loneli- 

259 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

ness,  she  traced  the  moment  back  and  back  until,' 
without  a  shadow  of  doubt,  it  was  placed  on  the  oc- 
casion when  she  had  accepted  Andrea's  proposal  of 
marriage.     At  the  time  she  had  not  realised  it,  but 
it  appeared  now  that  he  had  certainly  become  her 
sheet  anchor,  her  ultimate  idea  of  home.     "I  told 
him,"  she  said  to  herself,  "that  I  did  not  love  him  in 
the  wife-way;  I  was  honest  with  him."  The  reflection 
eddied  about  in  her  brain  and  flung  itself  forward 
again  in  a  different  form,  as  a  little  wave  sucks  out 
over  the  shingle  and  returns  reinforced  and  trans- 
formed into  a  giant.    Had  she  been  honest  with  her- 
self?    Certainly  the  process  of  cutting  Andrea  out 
of  the  canvas  of  her  future  left  the  picture  curiously 
formless  and  uninspiring.     The  possibility  that  she, 
Iris  the  all-sufficing,  might  really  feel  the  need  of 
some  other  human  being  in  her  life  came  upon  her 
with  a  real  shock.    She  had  so  strenuously  cultivated 
the  idea  that  she  had  no  use  for,  and,  indeed,  was 
incapable  of  that  kind  of  love  which  faced — even  joy- 
fully anticipated — years  of  the  familiarity  which  is 
said  to  breed  contempt,  that  now  she  regarded  the 
possibility  of  its  existence  with  a  suspicion  that  most 
ordinary  healthy-minded  women  might  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  realise.     Iris  had  certainly  been  a  butterfly, 
feeding  her  soul  upon  trivialities,  unsuspecting  of  that 
soul's  existence — but  she  had  her  virtues,  and  one  of 
them  was  honesty.    Nothing  would  have  induced  her 
to  go  to  Andrea  with  a  lie  in  her  heart.     She  read 
his  letter  once  more  and  forgot  to  read  the  postscript. 

260 


"THE  BIRTH" 

As  her  eyes  dimmed  over  the  words  she  involuntarily 
stretched  out  her  arms  as  if  to  gather  to  herself  some 
wraith  that  was  not  there.    With  a  start  she  noticed 
her  own  gesture.     "I  love  him,"  she  said  aloud,  like 
a  child  announcing  the  answer  to  a  sum.    Her  whole 
self  seemed  to  be  straining  after  a  truth.    When  a 
butterfly  is  serious  it  is  more  serious  than  any  hum- 
drum individual  can  realise.    This  was  no  matter  to 
be  settled  by  an  impulsive  gesture.    Iris  shivered  and 
nerved  herself  to  test  this  new-born  love  in  a  way 
which,  morbid,  perhaps,  yet  with  all  the  grandeur  of 
self-discipline,   only  she   and  her  kind  could  have 
imagined.    In  carrying  it  out  she  experienced  all  the 
agony  of  a  surgeon  performing  a  critical  operation 
upon  his  dearest  friend,  with  perhaps  a  little  of  the 
joy  of  the  mediaeval  ascetic.    Iris  was  Iris  still.    She 
had  always  been  a  clever  draughtsman.  Now  she  took 
a  pencil  from  her  bureau  and  Andrea's  photograph 
from  its  frame.    Then  she  read  the  postscript  of  his 
letter  once  more  and  began  the  operation  upon  the 
left  side  of  the  face.     She  drew  the  firm  mouth  up- 
wards into  half  an  imbecile  grin;  the  left  eye,  of 
course,  would  probably  sink,  the  nostril  would  be 
broadened  a  little,  the  eyebrow  would  lie  a  bit  out  of 
the    straight.      A   little    shading  brought    out   the 
wrinkled  skin,  diabolically  twisting  the  hair  off  the 
forehead  at  the  wrong  angle.    Iris  spared  nothing  in 
this  heroic  mutilation.     Perhaps  the  torture  of  that 
pencil   can  scarcely  be  understood  by  those  lucky 
lovers  whose  natures  do  not  demand  beauty  as  a 

261 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

right.  It  was  finished  at  last.  Nothing  was  left  out 
that  the  imagination  could  supply.  "And  you  are 
lame!"  she  whispered,  holding  the  picture  at  arm's 
length  before  her  eyes. 

"Dear  heart — dear,  dear  heart,  I  love  you." 

She  pressed  the  scarred  photograph  to  her  lips  and 
covered  it  with  kisses.  She  no  longer  doubted ;  if  the 
face  was  the  face  of  Polyphemus  and  the  body  that 
of  Thersites — the  miracle  had  happened  and  she 
loved  him.  Exactly  what  she  loved  she  knew  not, 
trusting  to  the  years  to  tell  her.  Her  body  seemed 
literally  to  swell  with  desire.  She  discovered  her 
arms  yearning  again,  angry  at  the  empty  air. 

"Oh,  Andrea,  my  darling!"  she  cried  aloud,  "I 
want  you  there  so  much  I" 

She  looked  again  at  the  hideous  picture  and  smiled, 
as.  a  mother  will  smile  at  her  ugly  baby.  "I  almost 
wish,"  she  murmured,  "that  you  were  less  handsome 
than  that." 

Then  she  put  the  photograph  down.  Life  had  be- 
come a  different  matter  in  the  last  few  minutes.  She 
was  going  to  him  at  once,  of  course.  Nothing  else 
was  even  thinkable.  (Butterflies  are  very  violent 
once  they  begin  to  use  their  wings  with  a  purpose.) 
There  was,  she  satisfied  herself,  no  pity  here ;  only  a 
wonderful  savage  pri<je. 

"My  lover,"  she  said  aloud,  "you  are  my  home; 
they  have  not  hurt  your  arms !"  The  hunger  which 
possessed  her  as  she  took  the  picture  up  once  more 
was  something  new — something  strangely  permanent. 

262 


"THE  BIRTH" 

A  knock  on  the  door  found  no  response.  Jacobs, 
with  raised  eyebrows,  announced  dinner. 

Iris  started. 

"I  shan't  be  dining  to-night,"  she  said.  "I'm  leav- 
ing England  instead.  Get  me  the  telephone  number 
of  the  Russian  Embassy,  and  begin  packing — pack- 
ing everything!" 

She  noticed  suddenly  the  maid's  astonished  face, 
and  then  she  smiled.  After  all,  how  was  Jacobs  to 
know  that,  after  many  days,  the  Other  Lady  was 
safely  born  at  last? 


263 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"THE  THREE  'L'S'  " 

THERE  are  certain  rules  and  regulations  which  gov- 
ern the  affairs  of  this  world  a  vast  deal  more  inexor- 
ably than  ever  did  those  of  the  Medes  and  Persians. 
One  of  them  is  that  one  cannot  make  a  discovery 
without  a  confidant.  When  Watts,  or  Stevenson, 
or  whoever  it  was,  drew  that  amazing  inspira- 
tion from  the  tea-kettle  there  is  no  doubt  that,  if  no 
one  else  was  at  hand,  the  cat  was  the  first  to  hear  of 
the  new-born  idea.  It  is  almost  as  if  the  birth  is  not 
complete  until  somebody  has  been  told.  The  comity 
of  mankind  demands  it,  and  the  fact  is  one  of  a 
million  evidences  that  go  to  show  that  the  soul  cannot 
energise  alone.  Iris  had  met  the  "Other  Lady"  face 
to  face.  Naturally,  she  went  straight  away  to  an- 
nounce the  arrival  to  the  Reverend  John.  After  all, 
in  a  sense,  he  occupied  the  position  of  the  father.  On 
the  way  to  the  vicarage  she  laughed  aloud.  Which  of 
her  acquaintances  would  believe  in  this  new  Iris? 
Carefree  and  happy  all  her  life,  she  had  never  till 
this  moment  realised  how  satisfying  life  could  be. 
She  allowed  herself  to  wonder  whether  she  would 
ever  have  met  the  Other  Lady  at  all  if  she  had  not 

264 


"THE  THREE  'L'S'" 

met  the  old  clergyman  first.  The  question  was  not 
answered  before  she  stood  on  the  Vicarage  steps. 
Mrs.  Jallop  opened  the  door  and  regarded  Iris  with 
an  expression  in  which  tolerance  struggled  with  pity. 
"You  can't  see  'im,"  she  said  immediately;  "  'e's  in 
bed." 

"In  bed?"  echoed  Iris.  "It's  only  a  quarter  past 
nine!" 

"Chill,"  returned  the  housekeeper  laconically,  and 
added  almost  lusciously,  "may  take  a  dangerous 
turn."  She  had  a  passion  for  cemeteries,  and  any 
prospective  tenant  of  one  gained  a  place  of  respect 
in  her  mind. 

Behind  Mrs.  Jallop  there  appeared  a  new  figure  in 
the  hall — a  lady  of  some  sixty  years,  holding  herself 
so  straight  as  almost  to  be  terrifying,  and  in  the  worst 
state  of  good  preservation. 

"You  are  a  friend  of  the  Vicar's?"  she  asked  in 
an  even,  metallic  tone  that  called  to  mind  hundreds 
of  dull  dinner-parties  and  at-homes. 

"Yes,"  returned  Iris,  and  walked  into  the  house. 

I  am  his  sister,"  said  the  other.  "John  is  very 
careless.  Mrs.  Jallop  wrote,  and  I  considered  it  mv 
duty " 

"Surely,"  said  Iris,  as  she  went  into  the  study, 
"surely  he  is  not  dangerously  ill?" 

"To  my  mind,"  returned  the  other,  "a  man  with 
my  brother's  ideas  is  always  dangerously  ill." 

Iris  looked  up  at  her  sharply,  and,  with- the  quick 
intuition  of  the  cosmopolitan,  catalogued  her  im- 

265 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

mediately  in  her  mind.  She  decided  that  it  was  hard 
to  suffer  fools  gladly,  but  that  an  aristocratic  fool  was 
the  most  terrible  of  the  species.  Unity  Heslop  had 
aristocrat  advertised  in  every  line  of  her  body;  she 
had  bigotry  and  stupidity  announced  in  every  worH 
she  spoke.  But  at  the  moment  Iris  cared  for  none 
of  these  things. 

"He  is  not  going  to  die?"  she  asked,  aware  of  a 
quite  startling  anxiety  for  the  answer. 

"I  hope  not,"  answered  Miss  Heslop;  "but  at  his 
age  the  threat  of  bronchitis  may  mean  anything." 
She  broke  off  and  set  a  bronze  of  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent  mathematically  straight  upon  the  mantel- 
piece. Her  every  action,  thought  Iris,  seemed  a  me- 
chanical result  of  her  nature. 

"You  know  him  well?"  asked  the  lady. 
"I  hope  so,"  answered  the  Russian,  unable  to  suc- 
ceed in  keeping  the  hostility  out  of  her  voice. 
The  elder  woman  sighed. 

"What  a  pity,"  she  said,  "that  he  has  so  muddled 
away  his  life  I  I  always  said  John  had  great  abilities, 
and  he  was  a  personal  friend  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury.  He  might  have  made  for  himself  a  real 
place  in  the  world,  but  his  ideas  were  always  wrong, 
even  from  a  boy."  She  shook  her  head  sadly.  "He 
really  seemed  to  prefer  to  miss  everything,"  she 
added. 

"Of  such,"  murmured  Iris,  "is  the  kingdom  of 

Heaven." 

266 


"THE  THREE  'L'S' " 

Naturally  she  misremembered  her  context,  but  the 
answer  gave  it  to  her. 

"John  is  not  a  child,"  said  Miss  Heslop  stiffly. 

"Yes,  he  is,"  she  retorted,  adding  ungrammatic- 
ally, "the  better  half  of  them." 

With  her  message  to  the  old  man  burning  to  be 
heard,  she  was  in  no  mood  to  be  polite  to  a  woman 
like  Unity  Heslop. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  elder  lady,  "that  you  think 
that  clever?" 

'It  must  be,"  was  the  answer;  "it's  true." 
"Well,  well,"  murmured  the  other  in  the  glassy 
tone  of  extreme  politeness,  "we  will  not  quarrel  about 
it.  No  doubt  John's  parishioners  are  satisfied  with 
little  things.  After  all,  the  big  world  is  not  sauce  for 
everybody,  is  it?" 

Of  course  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  Miss 
Heslpp's  breeding,  yet  for  all  that  Iris  could  not  help 
noticing  how  very  much  like  her  patronage  was  to 
that  of  Henry  Cumbers,  who,  needless  to  say, 
would  never  have  been  allowed  to  figure  on  her 
visiting  list.  Now,  although  the  Other  Lady  had 
been  discovered,  it  appeared  that  she  had  much  in 
common  with  the  old  Iris.  She  had  no  intention  of 
allowing  anyone  to  belittle  her  friend  in  her  presence, 
and,  indeed,  the  temper  of  the  Other  Lady,  rising 
rapidly  to  fever  heat  in  a  manner  curiously  reminis- 
cent of  old  times,  was  already  flying  the  usual  signals 
in  Iris's  green  eyes.  She  faced  the  elder  lady  across 
the  table. 

267 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"You !"  she  said  derisively,  "you  to  dare  to  criticise 
him?  I  tell  you  the  Reverend  John  means  more  in 
the  world  than  it's  possible  to  express  ...  all  the 
Reverend  Johns!  A  good  man  who  can  laugh  like 
he  does  is  a  far  more  valuable  gift  to  posterity  than 
the  Parthenon  or  the  Venus  de  Milo.  Millions  of 
people  may  benefit  by  his  jest  and  his  earnest — you 
can't  tell  how  many  I"  She  lost  her  breath  in  her  en- 
thusiasm, and  the  elder  lady,  used  to  taking  ad- 
vantage of  breathing-spaces  in  the  scrambles  which 
are  called  conversation  at  afternoon  teas,  leapt  into 
the  breach. 

"I  should  never  deny,"  she  said,  "that  my  brother 
is  a  clever  man.  Unfortunately,  he  has  wasted  his 
talents." 

Iris  was  becoming  really  angry,  but  Miss  Heslop, 
poor  soul,  had  no  idea  that  she  was  trying  to  be 
dignified  with  a  piece  of  nitroglycerine. 

"What  a  rotten  thing  to  say!"  ejaculated  the  Rus- 
sian. "I  suppose  you'd  like  to  see  him  in  a  tin-pot 
mitre  and  a  palace,  trying  to  be  a  prince  of  the 
church  when  they  lost  their  usefulness  in  the  Middle 
Ages!"  she  laughed  merrily.  "I  don't  think  he'd  en- 
joy being  a  figurehead.  Oh — and  how  Daddy  would 
hate  his  mitre!" 

Miss  Heslop  was  a  strict  high-churchwoman.  One 
of  the  Heslops  had  been  killed  by  a  Roundhead  in 
the  Civil  Wars,  and  this  (though,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
it  had  been  the  result  of  a  debauch  in  a  village  tav- 
ern) had  settled  the  religious  opinions  of  the  Heslops 

268 


"THE  THREE  'L'S'" 

for  good  and  all.  It  was  deplored  that  the  Reverend 
John  had  no  family  feeling  in  the  matter.  Now  she 
was  shocked  to  the  very  core.  She  would  as  soon 
have  desecrated  a  tomb  as  have  called  a  mitre  "tin- 
pot."  She  was  so  upset  that  she  made  herself 
ridiculous. 

"My  family,"  she  said,  "belong  to  the  high-church. 
They  do  not  understand  your  type  of  person.  I  have 
no  doubt  you  are  much  to  be  pitied,  but  I  am  not  a 
missionary.  I  am  totally  unfitted  to  contend  with 
the  ravings  of  the  heathen." 

As  she  gave  vent  to- this  portentous  and  solemn 
utterance  she  rang  the  bell.  Iris  had  never  met  this 
kind  of  fanatic  before.  She  realised  vaguely  that 
Miss  Heslop's  religion  was  more  an  heirloom  than 
anything  else,  that  she  had  almost  come  to  regard 
God  as  a  family  servant.  Being  Iris,  with  her 
emotions  absolutely  unschooled,  she  saw  only  the 
humour  of  the  situation,  and  suddenly  shrieked  with 
laughter.  Miss  Heslop  probably  thought  that  she 
was  mad.  At  this  moment  Mrs.  Jallop  appeared  in 
the  doorway.  Iris's  laughter  had  been  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  housekeeper's  eye- 
brows expressed  almost  as  much  disapproval  as  did 
those  of  the  high-churchwoman.  The  Reverend  John, 
manfully  attempting  a  novel  of  soul  analysis  which" 
his  sister  had  given  him  and  on  which  he  knew  she 
would  examine  him  later,  heard  it  also.  Here  was 
relief!  He  sprang  out  of  bed  with  a  marvellous 

269 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

agility  considering  the  weight  of  his  sixty-eight  years, 
and  opened  the  door. 

"Is  that  you,  my  daughter?"  he  shouted. 

The  trio  were  now  in  the  hall. 

"Goodness  me!"  said  Mrs.  Jallop,  startled  into 
irreverence,  "the  old  fool's  got  out  of  bed!" 

"Jallop  I"  said  Miss  Heslop  warningly,  and  turned 
to  the  stairs.  The  Reverend  John,  leaning  now  over 
the  banisters,  could  see  his  sister's  upturned  face. 

"I  want,"  he  said,  "to  see  Madame  Iranovna," 
and  then,  warned  by  her  expression,  added,  "I  shall 
be  seriously  ill  if  I  don't!" 

Iris  had  heard  every  word  from  his  first  shout  of 
welcome,  but  it  was  always  a  joy  to  her  to  watch  the 
Reverend  John  dealing  with  a  situation,  and  she 
meant  to  make  it  last  as  long  as  she  could. 

"Please  do  not  be  idiotic,  John,"  said  his  sister 
icily.  "You  are  far  too  old." 

"Ridiculous,  Unity,"  came  the  answer.  "You 
know  my  opinions  about  old  age.  I  havenvt  long 
enough  left  to  miss  being  idiotic  when  I  can.  I  wish 
to  see  Madame  Iranovna !" 

Iris  laughed  again. 

"All  right,  Daddy,"  she  said.     "I'm  coming!" 

She  went  up  the  stairs  two  at  a  time,  while  Miss 
Heslop  drummed  her  heel  impatiently  on  the  floor 
and  Mrs.  Jallop's  eyebrows  were  in  danger  of  dis- 
appearing into  her  fringe. 

"Mad,"  said  the  housekeeper,  "that's  what  'e  is." 

"Eccentric,"    corrected    Miss    Heslop,    without 
270 


"THE  THREE  'L'S' ' 

humour.  She  was  still  thinking  of  the  Family.  Up- 
stairs the  Reverend  John  received  Iris  in  his  pyjamas. 

"I  have  a  dressing-gown,"  he  explained,  "but  they 
decided  it  was  dirty — one  of  those  towelling  affairs 
...  a  little  dust,  that's  all.  Most  women  are 
hypersensitive." 

"Please  get  into  bed,"  said  Iris.  "If  you  die,  I'll 
have  to  explain  to  your  sister,  and  I  should  hate 
that." 

"So  should  I,"  he  replied,  climbing  into  bed,  and 
added,  "but,  thank  goodness,  I  should  be  deadl  I 
would  so  love  to  see  her  face  when  she  put  flowers 
over  me  every  three  months  1  I  oughtn't  to  say  that, 
because  she's  very  kind  ...  in  a  quite  impossible 
way.  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  my  daughter!" 

"I've  got  some  interesting  news  for  you,"  she  said, 
and  added  bluntly,  "you  were  quite  right  about  the 
Other  Lady,  Daddy;  she's  come  to  life." 

He  held  out  his  hands  and  she  took  them  in  hers. 
He  smiled,  and  after  a  little  pause  he  said: 

"It's  a  nice  feeling,  isn't  it?" 

"A  wonderful  feeling,"  she  answered,  "but  I'm 
glad  I've  still  got  a  terrible  temper  and  a  fearful 
sense  of  humour.  I  don't  think  I  could  do  without 
theml" 

"It  is  quite  as  dangerous,"  he  said,  "to  lose  sight 
of  the  trivial  side  of  your  nature  as  the  serious,  and 
equally  wrong.  I  don't  think  anybody  sufficiently 
realises  how  much  sheer  folly  helps  the  world  to  be 

271 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

a  better  place.  What's  the  Other 'Lady  like?"  he 
added  abruptly. 

"Her  lover  has  been  made  ugly  and  lame  in  the 
war,"  answered  Iris.  She  tried  to  keep  the  note  of 
banter  in  her  voice,  and  she  could  have  sworn  her 
eyes  showed  no  tears.  Yet,  somehow,  as  usual,  the 
Reverend  John  pierced  her  armour  and  she  found 
herself  a  few  seconds  later  lying  in  his  arms,  half 
across  the  bed,  damping  his  pyjamas  with  her  crying. 

"I— I'm  sorry,  Daddy,"  she  sobbed.  "The  old 
me  would  never  have  done  this." 

"It's  the  happiest  moment  of  my  life,"  he  an- 
swered. "I  feel  a  real  father  at  last.  Please  cry  for 
a  few  moments  more !" 

The  conceit  charmed  her  tears  away. 

"I've  come  to  say  good-bye,"  she  said. 

"Naturally,"  he  answered. 

"I  wouldn't  have  gone  to  him  .  .  .  some  time 
ago.  But  ...  I  can't  explain  it  ...  something 
happened,  and  I  love  him  more  than  ever  .  .  .  more 
than  I  thought  possible.  I  wonder  if  you  under- 
stand." 

"I  ought  to,"  he  murmured.  "I've  been  prophesy- 
ing it  to  myself  for  some  time." 

"What?    That  he  would  be  disfigured?" 

"No.    That  you  would  be  transfigured." 

"But  I'm  not,"  she  said.  "I  was  fearfully  rude  to 
your  sister." 

"Anything  else,"  answered  the  old  man,  "would 
have  been  unnatural.  I  hope  you  will  never  be  that  1" 

272 


"THE  THREE  'L'S' ' 

"And  my  temper  is  still  fearful  .  .  .  and  I  still 
love  beauty  .  .  .  and  I  could  never  get  on  with  Mr. 
Cumbers  1" 

"It  always  will  be  ...  you  always  will,  and 
there's  no  earthly  reason  why  you  should!"  smiled 
the  Reverend  John,  answering  her  categorically. 
"And  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  when  you  are  gone, 
my  daughter,  I  shall  miss  you  very  much  indeed!" 

"I  shall  always  write  to  you,"  she  answered,  "when 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  next  about  things  .  .  .  and 
even  when  I  do !"  she  added. 

"Every  one  of  your  letters  will  make  up  for  the 
children  I  have  never  had." 

"You  are  wonderful !"  she  said  suddenly. 

He  smiled. 

"That  is  the  right  attitude  for  a  child,"  he  an- 
swered. She  looked  at  him  long  and  tenderly. 

"I  wish  I  could  repay  you,"  she  said. 

"There  is  nothing  to  repay,"  he  replied. 

"But  if  there  was  you  would  have  repaid  me  in  full 
by  seeing  through  my  black  coat  and  my  dog-collar 
and  giving  me  your  confidence.  That  cheered  me  up 
tremendously!" 

"I  hate  saying  good-bye,"  murmured  Iris,  and 
there  came  a  loud  double  knock  on  the  door. 

The  old  man  leapt  out  of  bed  in  an  instant.  He 
crossed  the  room  and  spoke  through  the  keyhole. 

"Look  here,  Unity,"  he  shouted,  "family  or  no 
family,  if  you  interrupt  me  any  more  I  won't  guaran- 
tee to  behave  like  a  clergyman!  I  wish  to  be  left 

273 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

alone.  I'm  saying  good-bye  to  my  daughter  who  is 
going  away  for  a  long  time." 

Iris  heard  Miss  Heslop's  steps  going  down  the 
stairs.  Every  tread  sounded  outraged.  Mrs.  Jallop, 
who  had  been  on  the  landing,  had  heard  the  old  man's 
remarks. 

"Daughter!"  she  repeated  aghast,  "is  it  possible 

that  'e " 

Miss  Heslop  interrupted  her  sharply. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Jallop,"  she  snapped.  "A 
daughter  of  the  flesh  is  different  from  a  daughter  of 
the  spirit.  Go  to  the  kitchen." 

But  the  housekeeper  was  not  to  be  bullied. 

"Dessay,"  she  answered.  "The  chief  difference  is 
that  the  last  kind  'e  can  chose  for  'isself.  It's  my 
opinion  Mr.  'Eslop  might  'ave  done  better!'  She 
departed  to  her  kitchen  more  deeply  rooted  than 
ever  in  the  Dissenting  faith. 

"Look  here,  Daddy,"  Iris  was  saying  upstairs, 
"you  treated  me  to  a  sermon  almost  the  first  time  I 
met  you.  I  wish  you'd  give  me  a  little  one  now,  just 

before  I  go?" 

The  old  man  propped  himself  up  on  one  elbow. 

"Most  of  the  things  that  humans  say,"  he  re- 
marked,  "are  only  half-truths.  I  hope  you'll  look  at 
my  sermons  from  that  point  of  view.  It's  as  near  as 
I  can  get  to  things,  but  I've  no  way  of  testing  how 
near  that  is.  Understand?" 

She  nodded. 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "whatever  you  do,  be  real. 
274 


"THE  THREE  'L'S'" 

Never  pretend  you  are  something  that  God  didn't 
make  you.  Always  remember  that  most  things  peo- 
ple say,  they  don't  mean,  simply  because  they've  never 
thought  whether  they  mean  them  or  not.  Don't  for- 
get that  Folly  and  a  light  heart  are  the  gifts  of  the 
gods.  Why  a  capacity  for  nonsense.is  not  considered 
a  virtue  I  have  never  understood.  And  lastly  (just 
to  make  it  sound  like  a  sermon) ,  you  know  the  three 
'RY  of  education?" 

"Never  heard  of  them?"  said  Iris. 

"Never  mind,"  returned  the  Reverend  John,  "they 
have  never  amounted  to  much.  The  three  'LY  of 
Life  are  much  more  important!" 

"The  three  'LY?"  she  echoed. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Love,  Labour  and  Laughter. 
They  carry  one  through  most  things." 

She  knew  that  his  sermon  was  ended  and,  crossing 
suddenly,  sat  on  his  bed  again. 

"I  think,  Daddy,"  she  whispered,  "that  the  three 
'LY  are  just  another  name  for  yourself." 

"Delilah,"  he  breathed  into  her  ear,  and,  absurd 
old  clergyman  that  you  are,  that  good-bye  tear  on 
your  neck  made  you  ridiculously  happy !  Personally, 
I  think  the  world  is  very  ill-arranged,  and  it  is  a  great 
waste  that  no  child  of  yours  will  worry  out  the  daily 
problems  of  the  next  generation.  I  rather  think  that 
he  or  she  might  help  things  on  a  bit.  However,  it  is 
no  use  crying  over  spilt  milk. 

Iris  was  gone,  and  the  Reverend  John  might  have 
lain  back  in  his  bed  thinking  about  his  daughter  for 

275 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

hours  and  hours,  but  there  came  a  knock  on  the  door 
once  more,  and  this  time  Unity  Heslop  made  certain 
of  getting  in  before  the  old  man  could  climb  out  of 
bed. 

"There  is  a  woman  downstairs,"  she  said,  "who 
is  particularly  anxious  to  see  you.  A  Miss  Figgis.  A 
matter  of  conscience,  I  gathered  .  .  .  something  to 
do  with  a  committee.  She  said  you  would  under- 
stand. Are  you  well  enough  to  see  her?  I  must  say 
she  appeared  to  be  a  worthy  woman." 

There  was  an  unmistakable  emphasis  on  the  last 
three  words. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "I  will  see 
Miss  Figgis." 

"Had  not  the  bed  better  be  straightened?"  asked 
his  sister  icily. 

The  Reverend  John  thought  of  Miss  Figgis. 

"Perhaps  it  had,"  he  said  meekly,  and  Miss  Heslop 
was  quite  surprised  at  his  acquiescence.  But  there  are 
many  ways  of  avoiding  offence  to  the  weaker  breth- 
ren, and  the  old  man  seldom  overlooked  even  the 
smallest. 

A  moment  later  the  face  of  Miss  Figgis  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  She  was  pulling  off  and  putting  on 
her  gloves,  and  she  gave  a  nervous  little  giggle  as 
she  came  in.  ... 

And  so  the  good  work  goes  on. 


276 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"MORE  BEGINNINGS" 

NOT  a  hundred  miles  north-east  of  Warsaw  stands  a 
large  garden  surrounding  a  stone  house  of  some  pro- 
portions. Seats  and  summer-houses  are  cunningly  ar- 
ranged to  form  a  bulwark  against  the  icy  winds.  Be- 
yond  the  trees  a  Red  Cross  flag  flutters  and  falls 
lifeless  beside  its  pole.  The  place  is  deserted.  But 
no.  From  a  little  arbour  on  the  left  of  the  garden 
a  man  and  a  girl  appear  and  walk  slowly  towards 
the  house.  They  walk  slowly  because  the  man  limps 
and  leans  heavily  upon  his  stick. 

Do  you  want  to  hear  what  they  are  saying?    Very 
well. 

"Iris,"  says  Andrea,  "you  grow  more  beautiful 
every  day." 

"I'm  glad,"  answers  Iris.    "I  like  flattery  as  much 
as  ever." 

"It's  all  very  wonderful,"  thoughtfully  murmurs 
the  man. 

"Yes,"  she  answers.     "It  is  very  wonderful  to 
wake  up  ...  and  still  be  the  samel" 

"Don't  you  think,"  he  pleads,  "we  could  stay  out 
a  bit  longer?" 

277 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 

"Certainly  not,"  she  answers  firmly.  "It  is  time 
for  your  tonic  .  .  .  and  beside,  I  have  a  letter  I 
want  to  write  to  England." 


0  Q'/s 

£/  I     iS 


278 


A     000  040  547     2 


